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“Lakehouse how in the fuck.”  Lakehouse’s arms come up then back down in a jerky, uncomfortable shrug. They look more distressed than Agnes has ever seen them, neck fluff tangled in the dark green vines and needles of a half-finished wreath. Their entire head and one arm have been shoved through the center of it, and they wobbl...

Agnes tightens her scarf around herself as she wanders toward the Garden of Virtue, tail twitching with every step. It’s cold up here, colder than down in Burrowgatory proper— every exhale leaves a misty ghost in its wake, a fog that dissipates before the next breath can come. Agnes huffs, and burrows further into her scarf.  It’s louder here than in her cabin. She doesn’t care for it, however distant the noise is now.  Still, far too late to turn back now.  Ag...