“Overhead, the night sky was spangled with stars, except for a brighter patch where a crescent moon, just as thin as a fingernail paring, hung over the bare branches of the oak trees along the driveway. The kitchen windows shed their light over the wiry brown grass of the backyard. At the edge of the yard, Grand-Jane’s white-painted beehives were lined up, the bees inside them asleep and quiet. Winter had ended. Fer could feel spring coming in the smell of rich dirt, in the cold, knobbled nubs a...t the tips of tree twigs. Soon the oak trees would have mouse-ear-sized leaves budding out, and the bees would be stirring. Spring tingled just under her skin, waiting to burst out. But now everything was waiting. It was just this chilly in-between time. Mud time. Fer shivered and put her hands into the pockets of her patchwork jacket. In the left pocket, she had two twigs and a smooth stone she’d found in a creek that afternoon. In the right pocket, a little cloth bag of herbs, loosestrife and lavender, mugwort and harewort, a protective spell that her grandma made her carry with her always.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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