Bev, excellent. Because what's going to follow what you've got is the "wait a minute...." kicking up.

As said elsewhere, I'm handling this one with care. It wants to charge out and I keep telling it whoa, chill, easy there. Using Rex Stout's superb phrase, when he had Nero Wolfe handling a pot containing the world's only black orchids, I'm acting like it's made of star bubbles and angel's breath. A lot of stuff going on in this one, not to mention seeding book five. All very intimate and close to JP's heart.

Interesting to write, BTW. Bree is all the way back in this one, and that pleases me, because in this one, the musician is very much to the fore and everything else takes a back seat.

You have email. Which I think amounts to, "More, please?"

Hee! Got it, Bev, and laughing. Yep - a lot in there.

Will do the next half today. Writing, it is our friend.

I'm curious as to what ita could do with the "recognise" topic from the POV of Little Red Riding Hood's wolf: "Stop making rude comments about my personal appearance, you little bitch! There's NOTHING WRONG with my damned TEETH!"

In the spirit of ita's fairy tale themed string of drabbles:

Clothes Make the Man

I’d been wearing the same outfit for so long, I didn’t think anyone would recognize me. All the brocade and jewels, the gold and sumptious embroidery muffled my natural glory. It was time that people could see the true loveliness of my physique through a well-structured, less cluttered looking outfit.

I found the perfect tailor. He spent ages taking measurements, cutting the cloth, pinning and tucking it just so. He worked utter magic on that suit; it was so glorious I was afraid it would outshine me, that I would still go unrecognized.

Why won’t the people look at me?

Ok, Deb, since you said that, I HAD to try my hand at it:

They always know who I am, but they lie to themselves. They want the lie, need it. They see me lurking on the dark edges of the safe path, and they wave their baskets of goodies at me, thinking "I am on the safe path," and dance up to the boundary.

I dance, too. I am a good dancer, smiling my so-bright smile, and growling till the sound ripples up their spines and makes their feet falter on the edge, teetering on danger. Shiny fairy girls, liking the edge, the moment of hanging in the balance before they skitter back to their safety -- the path, the school, the house.

But no path is ever safe. And boundaries are invisible. And I am not a man.

Sail, that's good and poignant - he has no clothes. And Erin, DAYUM! Made me happy.

Oooh, Erin, another one that gives me chills. Good job!

Hmm. Interesting...

****

You are young, child, and soft. I have just eaten old leathery skin and bones. Not a fit appetizer for your delicacy. I have seen the blush on your cheeks and the shine in your eyes. No such blossom on your grandmother, her glory days long past. But like her you do not shed monthly blood, yet you are ripe with the potential.

Life has not weighed down your shoulders, little one, nor man parted your legs. The next blood you shed shall be for me, and your last.

"Pull the bobbin, and the latch will go up," I whisper.

ita, it's like your possessed with deb's can't-stop-writing muse.

It's interesting, ita, that until you wrote this I'd never considered the parallels between LRRH and Bluebeard's closet. But the line:

The next blood you shed shall be for me, and your last.

ties in so much to menarche and the loss of virginity and the consequences thereof in both stories. Nicely done.