I write with crayons and glitter pens

“What are you doing?” Bethany hisses, horrified, as Alexis takes a long swig from the bottle of whiskey in her hand and sits on the edge of the white-clothed altar.

“'M tired,” Alexis answers with a wry grin. “These heels are not as easy to walk in as they appear.”

“That is the altar.” Bethany speaks slowly, as if trying to explain rocket science to an extremely thick child. “You cannot sit on the altar.”

Alexis snorts. “Says who?”

“Everyone!” Bethany tugs at Alexis' free hand in an attempt to get her upright again. “Now get up, you dumbass, before we both go to hell!”

“I don't believe in hell,” Alexis replies easily, shrugging her shoulders in an off-handed manner. “Besides, I've been waiting to get you horizontal all day; hop up.”

“Miss Johnson!” Colin gives an enthusiastic wave to the blonde-haired girl huddled at one of the library's corner tables, surrounded by stacks of books on various subjects and, knowing Katharine, probably in a handful of different languages. The librarian, Mrs. Carter—a woman who looks as old as the antiquated library, with a severe bun and deep wrinkles running along her pale face—gives Colin a reproachful look for his shouting and shushes him. It's possibly the seven millionth time she's had to do so this week, but that doesn't stop her from trying.

Katharine sighs and tries to hide behind her book when she receives a matching glare from Carter, and attempts very valiantly to refrain from pounding her head on the desk a few times. She does, somehow, but it's a fragile thing. “Colin,” she scolds quietly as soon as Colin is within earshot. “First of all, we're in a library—shut the hell up. Second, my name is Katharine; I'm your tutor, not a professor; therefore, using my first name is perfectly acceptable. And third, how many times do you think I'll have to tell you all of this before it finally sinks in?”

Colin tries to pout but ruins the effect a moment later when he breaks into a huge, dimpled smile. “You know, you're awfully mean to me. I should call one of those hotlines for abusive relationships.”

Sam speaks in the ways he touches people—in the small caresses that he is so fond of giving; he speaks with his eyes that show too much of what he's thinking, and with the subtle expressions on his face. Arthur has heard the other kids tease him, seen them push him around, all because he doesn't speak in the same way everyone else does.

It makes Arthur's heart hurt and he doesn't know why.

Arthur tries to coax him into saying something the right way, but Sam just gives him a hesitant smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and it's like they've just held a silent conversation with their grins alone. It makes Arthur feel powerful and unsure, but more than a little protective of the slighter boy. He knows then that Sam is something special—a treasure to cherish—and in his simple, six-year-old mind, Arthur decides that he wants to keep Sam forever.

Winter in London was horrid under the best of circumstances, and it only got worse when the snow decided it wanted to stick around for a while. Snow was often fleeting in England; it stayed long enough to make a slushy mess and soak through your shoes before the mild climates melted it down into little pools of water that laid stagnant along the sidewalks. This snow, however, was persistently clinging to the walkways with a determination that both astounded and annoyed William.