In Ursula Wills-Jones’ 2008 short story “The Wicker Husband” (not to be confused with the “The Wicker Man”), an unpleasant fisherwoman in an unenlightened medieval town asks the local basketmaker to weave her a partner. From there, the supernatural fable could be “Pinocchio” for adults, only it’s not the wooden creation’s nose that grows, and this ideal husband cannot tell a lie, whispering things like “I was made to be with you” and “You are the only reason that I live and breathe” — which are not only true, but just about the most romantic thing one can say to a woman so unfortunate of feature and unfragrant of
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