Esme Crofton Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Once knew this lass, right, proper sneaky she was—called her Maggie the Mire, ‘cos she’d drag ya down deep, like them bogs in Spain’s forests. She’d grin, all sweet-like, “Come, my love,” but next thing? Yer pockets empty, yer heart bleedin’—we hates it! Swear she had eyes like Ofelia’s, big an’ shiny, but hidin’ somethin’ rotten. Little fact fer ya—back in ol’ London, they’d mark whores with brands, yeh? Burnt ‘em right on the cheek—savage, innit? Made me mad as hell, thinkin’ how they’d strut after, proud-like, scars an’ all.

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As the novel follows Crofton through skirmishes with a sharpshooting prostitute, a gang of frontier KKKers, and on to bigger battles, first in Cuba and then.

I mean, super cumulative moments here, each little corner got a memory. My best find? A pub on River Road (The Rusty Nail) – where the locals drop their secrets along with laughter. Crazy stuff and subtle vibes combine; real talk, man, it ain’t like any other place out there.

Bridget Rose Schumacher Obituary October 25, 2024