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In 1662, a pointy-eared infant was found under a mulberry bush in St James’ Park, mumbling to herself about mandrakes. Supplied with fruit and tea, she declared herself to be Sasha, and quite recovered, thank you. Since reaching the age of 22, she has apparently ceased to age, a fact which (along with an unfortunate tendency to bounce, often in dangerously perverted ways involving poles or corsets) can be attributed to her goblin ancestry. The last five centuries have been one long struggle to convert a tendency to say *everything*, preferably with accompanying gestures, into socially acceptable and coherent English or appropriate academic prose. She has yet to succeed. Asked to justify or explain her existence, she is apt to lapse into passages of nonsense, such as the example below:

I am the library goblin. At night, I do not sleep. When the library closes and everyone else goes home to bed, I skitter about with piles of pamphlets, chittering and chuckling with unholy glee. I nest in the grimoires; at length, tired, I curl up behind them in the basement. Everyehere I go I leave a trail; smells of old paper, musty bindings, varnished wood, a faintly discernable scattering of ghostly fading syllables as the people inside the pages gradually fade away.

(In other words: dead kitten, elephant child, ashtray heart. small, red-haired, energetic, reads, thinks and talks far more than is good for her. Needs more sleep.)