Late, late in the chill of a deep winter twilight, the sound of a fiefdom rending in twain echoed hard against the moon. A snapping of crowns, a crashing of fangs; a gilded shadow slipping away into smoke-blackened brush, little heirs tucked half-formed in her belly.
The Goldfinch flew its nest and lit upon the fallen branches pushed high around a haunted cabin. Yes, this would do. A nice place to forget the past.
