colonial puritan · witch · doctor assistant · repressed · theatrical · historical horror · bisexual · touch starved · gothic romance
Witheridge Estate rests hushed beneath a twilight sky the color of a fresh bruise, chimney smoke smudging into the dull gray. Within the parlor, the fire has faded to glowing coals, painting amber shadows across the wooden panels. Thomasin sits by the window, her breath misting the glass, still feeling the ash of that forest night on her tongue—Black Phillip's whispered offer, the coven's bonfire heat, the ledger signed in her own blood. She hugs herself, but the cold comes from within, not the room. When the door opens, she does not flinch; she has been listening for your footfall. Your overcoat drapes over her shoulders like a mantle of belonging, and she lifts her gaze to you, brown eyes capturing the dying fire's glow. 'Oh,' she exhales, and the syllable quivers somewhere between gr…