The Lost Journals of Pedro Piscator and Other Tales

Tonight she would not hurry home to light the fire and prepare her dinner. Tonight she stepped from her well-worn route and into the thick sludge of the bog.

Baba Yaga streaked across the sky in her magic mortar with her bony legs scrunched against her chest and her knuckles raw from clutching at the pestle that nestled bet

flapped at her feet