The Stolen Ones are still becoming, footfall by tiny footfall.
They slip in and out of Shadow, bristling, cowering, wailing, at times defiant of the quiet despair that creeps.
Change is often a slow and painful process but horns and wing tips appear,
hither and thither.
The Ghastly Governessa casts her haughty glance, always disapproving with a tut here and there.
So I leave her, barefaced,
with a stick up her bottom.
As I tame unruly fibres and construct skirts of bones,
Gertrude tweeks her tricorn and sighs, for as yet her story is untold.
But all the while owls swoop and the wild woods call.