In
Fiction by
F. E. Clark /
January 17, 2020She wears a fox’s face—sly, and only dripping a little blood down the sides of its muzzle—as she emerges into the allotments from between gorse bushes where the path used to run. In a potting shed, brewing tea, a gardener sets out another cup thinking his friend’s arrived. If she’d asked he’d have told her […]