When Sir Sickelby jumped out of Sarah’s mirror that afternoon to declare his ardent love for her, Sarah wasn’t surprised. It seemed to be a trend these days.
“Dear, fine lady,” Sickelby said, kneeling on her oriental rug, wearing a full suit of armor, “your hair is softer than silk, brighter than gold. Your eyes shine like the stars in the milky sky, your heart is more pure than an angel’s.”
Twenty-six-year-old Sarah put her hands on her hips. “And my lips?” she asked. “Are you going to mention those?” Continue reading