The Gravewood

Oliver Lysander has been called a lot of things in his time on this earth.

When he was small, he was rotten. Disobedient when he refused to cooperate and spineless when he did. Later—once he’d grown—he was volatile. Unpredictable, impossible, frightening . Too grasping, too obsessive, too stubborn for his own good.

No one has ever accused him of being patient.

At present, he is trapped in a meeting that has managed to grind what little forbearance he possesses down to nothing. He can think of a dozen things he’d rather do than sit here and be unduly lectured. Swallow a hot coal. Walk across glass. Scoop out his eyes with a spoon.