They run for their lives, until a creature blocks their way: a small naked child, covered in red juice, butterfly wings twitching in his mouth … He faints; she starts to scream
“Excellent well, you’re a fishmonger. You’re my everything, you are my sunshine, you are old and gray and full of sleep, you’re my pickle-face, consumptive Mary Jane.” He paused, fluttering his wings against the wind, and added conversationally, “Your name is a golden bell hung in my heart. I would break my body to pieces to call you once by your name.”
They run for their lives, until a creature blocks their way: a small naked child, covered in red juice, butterfly wings twitching in his mouth … He faints; she starts to scream