“Rogue turned to her, his face no longer quite so hard. A curl of smoke rose from the pistol in his hand. Rotten apples fell from the tree, splatting at her feet. “Poor little girlie,” he said, and there did seem to be potty in his voice. “I told you you’d get your fingers bit.”

“Rogue turned to her, his face no longer quite so hard. A curl of smoke rose from the pistol in his hand. Rotten apples fell from the tree, splatting at her feet. “Poor little girlie,” he said, and there did seem to be potty in his voice. “I told you you’d get your fingers bit.”

— Lena Coakley