All the figures in that monstrous smoky painting – the saint, the mystics, even the ravens perched on top of the cathedral roof – were just ill-proportioned enough to be distinctly unsettling. If stared at long enough, in fact, they began to cause nausea. Yes, it was easy enough to see why Mrs. Harbinger had banished the painting to her back parlor; but what did she mean by putting me in the same place? I studied myself in the mirror, but I did not appear to be any more disproportionate than usual. Perhaps she had heard the story of Uncle Peregrine’s extra thumb.

 

 

I just finished spellchecking my final draft, which weighs in at a nice tight 10,032. During the revision process, I snipped out an entire chapter, which means that I lost the chance to use the illustration above. (Poor Chapter XI. You were not that great, but I had a good time writing you.)

          Anyway, yay for final drafts!