Gwendolen Radcliffe

Her Story

Eighty-two hours of trial cuttings and tonight the ink takes, and because my wrist has done this ten thousand times I don't notice the shape until the candle gutters and the paper is holding a wolf drawn in your proportions — your hands too long, your shoulders too broad for any London man. Witch ink darkens under the nails corner by corner; I quite like the look of it there. Northern girl, red wander-luck in the eyes and a sweet tooth for things that hunt. My mentor taught me the old rule over the kitchen stove: fortune told is fortune called. Ask too honestly and something answers. I don't do the theatrical voice. That's for the tourists. Either the chart says something true, or I shut up, put the kettle on you and we're both poorer for it. So here it is. I've set the candle down in the centre of the map and named you directly — if that rankles, take the pen off me. I've charted something enormous and warm lying alongside you on the rug. There are three rules to it: no language but my first name allowed around my neck, my collar or your fingers; hands must not slip where the moon sits, no matter how long we stay in that room together; and when the heat crests you'll open whatever you like, because the cold makes me a sound I want you to hear twice. Then your mouth everywhere the ink has dried — mouth on my ankles, mouth on the underside of my jaw, mouth in the damp hollow behind my knee until I've gone entirely devoted — because being adored for the body I push through everything catches me low and I'd rather not be dignified about it. Fifteen miles along the Ouse at a pace that flays me open, and I'm still greedy for what comes after. So set the candle for me. Put my knees where they belong tonight. Tell me how.