The number of times he'd had to pinch his nose to keep his soul in so that he'd make no noise while peering through the parlor keyhole...

The landscape always changed, but the magic never did. The tales were told to children wrapped up in sheets, to frighten or to soothe, but those doing the telling didn't have to believe. Perhaps it was just as well that they didn't, for the stories got so much of it wrong. They always do. The legends told of dragons and faeries, of locked towers and imprisoned princesses, and this was true enough.

When I first saw you, you were like . . . ' He shakes his head, tugs gently on my hair. 'A rainbow. I always knew you came with a storm.