Just plugging last edits into Restoration, powered by the kindness of the housemates who bring me cocktails (one a night so it’s not terrifying, drunken editing that makes Beloved Publisher cry).
I’m sitting in the Boatman’s low dark craft. I was in it not that long ago so I recognise it. I don’t like it any better now.
We glide through the tenebrous waves; they shine strange and oily beneath the hull, yet throw up no reflection when I lean out. These waters only take. There’s mist all around, thick and heavy and damp and cold. Last time I was in this boat, spirits tried to prise open my mouth, to get inside because I was alive and didn’t belong, yet I feel no trace of their fingers. I glance over my shoulder at the oarsman, who’s paying me no attention. He stares past me; I can see the glimmer of his obsidian eyes.
Extract from Restoration, Verity Fassbinder Book 3