“With her wild red hair draped around her pallid visage, she could easily be mistaken for a nymph from a Pre-Raphaelite painting. But then again, those nymphs were rarely hung-over or quite such a freckled, busty little thing.”

“My arms and legs were wrapped like tentacles around Echo, my nymph who lay sleeping with her back against me.”

“My heart swelled, causing my chest to ache and breathing to become nearly impossiple. Paralyzed by her beaty, i hovered over her. She was no nymph, but a goddess.”

“She put her hands on her hips and said, “Having red hair and freckles does not make me a leprechaun.” -Charlotte Mathers”

“Had she been born 500 years sooner, Raphael would have chosen her as a model for his cherubs. Tendrils of bright red hair framed her face, a spray of freckles powdered her nose, and she was as plump as a perfectly ripened peach. Raphael probably would have painted out the freckles, and that would have been a mistake. Like brushing cinnamon off cinnamon toast.”

“But her name was Esmé. She was a girl with long, long, red, red hair. Her mother braided it. The flower shop boy stood behind her and held it in his hand. Her mother cut it off and hung it from a chandelier. She was Queen. Mazishta. Her hair was black and her handmaidens dressed it with pearls and silver pins. Her flesh was golden like the desert. Her flesh was pale like cream. Her eyes were blue. Brown.”