Of Flying Buttresses And Beetle Wings

Awoken in the small hours, the half light yet but a promise. 
Still the Ghastly Governessa beckons shrill and insistent to a waking dream of Notre Dame, singing bones, beetle wings, Victorian velvets and cage crinolines. 

The time flew by swiftly with much resolved and change afoot. 
As the Governessa lay there, we reminded her of her wisdom pearls, freely given to the Ones in her charge.
“Transformations are often painful and prickly, like a briar patch. Struggle will merely drive the thorns deeper.”
I feel bony fingers pinch my arm, “Slice deeply my dear, just to be sure” smirks Mathilda as she passes me the knife.
So, here our Governessa, dismembered in order to become.
Of the Stolen Ones you have met the elder, Violet, candy floss wisped and webbed footed. An Old One, she listens and watches. More knowing than she appears and not as fragile as her powder pink hair would imply.
Iris and Quentin, sweet Violet’s companions in the Shadow Land, dear souls, have emerged.
Iris, horned and not averse to stamping a cloven hoof, is a rebellious charge. Anarchy reigns in her heart and in her blood lava flows.
 The thorns claw at her gossamer skin but defiant she remains, thrusting sky wards her tiny snub nose.
Quentin is a lonely soul much used to his own company, shared only by his dearest pebble. Not that he doesn’t occasionally kick him as far away as his spindly legs can manage.
 If you look carefully you can see the evidence of his worn through shoe.
Last evening, I found myself searching out my Grandfather’s calligraphy pens, paints, brushes and hand made quills.
Not content until I’d given them a place on my table, I realised it was the eve of his birthday.
Was this, perhaps, a gentle reminder that he watches still? An unbroken thread weaving through the veil.
In memory of my beloved Grandfather,
 B. D. Roper
12th February 1915 – 23rd May 2004