Moorea Corrigan

“Tasteful strings of flowers looped across the banisters in honor of the Spring Festival, at Mouse's request. The deep brown of the polished wood walls paired beautifully with the fine dark red carpet leading through to the unused ballroom and the study. Thornwood's magic had not retouched the bones of the great elk, but the horns were free of cobwebs and glowed white in the daylight drifting in from the clean windows above.
The tapestry stood out like a diamond in a crown, winding around the stone portion of the wall. The threads glittered in green, gold, red, silver, and blue. The faded Faerie and mortal faces were bold again, telling the story of the hunt.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh

“Who is this?” John asked, bending down to the dog’s level. She nuzzled his hand, chirping as he scratched behind her ears.
“Her name is Smudge.”
“Would Smudge like a delicious cut of ham?” John asked, his voice taking on the wobbly quality he always adopted around animals, even his bees. The dragon-dog bounced merrily in place, happy to play along.
After toweling off, they took seats in John’s kitchen. He placed a plate covered with a thick slice of ham on the ground. Smudge lay down next to it and chewed on one side slowly, savoring the salt for as long as she could.
“What a well-behaved little lady,” he said, scratching between her ears. Smudge preened. Mouse knelt, taking up John’s scratching as he moved back to the stove.
“You love this attention,” she said quietly. Smudge smiled, her teeth more dragon than dog.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh