Why do you mourn baby?

The fog seeps between the warp and weave of her cloak. It fit her before the crows came. Now her ribs weep softly as if the sullen fog has invaded the marrow, softening and sharpening. Her face was full, and she worshipped the sun and moon. Now the clammy breath keeps her chained to a castle full of pewter dishes and a constant throb, as if the whole world has not yet woken from a grey death.
His mistake was looking back . . . but Persephone’s moral had been lost on him; after all he was a man. The guilt would always haunt him. This bright, sensuous woman in her scarlet cloak and yellow ribbons did not even know his name, yet it seemed as if she know the magic secrets that spawned the fog. She breathed, and it breathed in her.
The yellow ribbons were all gone now save for one, which dangled delicately from the jaws of one of the female wolves beside her. Yes, they were definitely women too . . . lips pursed, one paw gently lifted while she was ...