Shakespeare has been outside my window for the past three nights. It’s rather annoying actually. He’s far too fond of composing sonnets about me, and it’s not at all flattering having my hair compared to a loo brush. At least he’s not holding up a boombox. I don’t think I can handle Peter Gabriel at this present moment.
It was raining when Myrdia reached the cottage. Big, thick clumps of water, like the heavens had decided to spit on her. The Goddess was spitting on her, Myrdia decided. She had decided to spit on her since the pilgrimage began. From falling in the gully to getting lost in the forest, it had been a disaster from beginning to end. She rapped the door three times, hard and fast. Anyone who lived within a hundred miles of the Temple would recognise that knock.
When Lucy found Haven, she was absolutely rat-arsed. She’d been out all night, and then she and Michael had been fighting. Drunk, and dribbling kebab sauce down her front, she stumbled down a side street. She’d never seen that nightclub before, poking its dimly lit head out into the alleyway.
We thought they’d gone extinct. Most of us weren’t even sure they were real to begin with. But we found a community of them in India, living in the Western Ghats. Some tourist took photos of them on their iPhone and the world went mad. The unicorn had returned to the world.