Tess points to the clematis climbing up the trellis. The Brotherhood would probably ban autumn if they could.
“I like it.” There’s something invigorating in the crisp September air, the searing blue skies, the interplay of orange and scarlet and gold. “I hate autumn,” she complains, biting at her lip with pearly teeth. She waits ahead, kicking at the dead leaves beneath a maple. But we’re concealed from the house by tall hedges. It’s against the Brothers’ strictures for girls to go out of doors uncloaked, and running isn’t considered ladylike. Gray cloak falling to reveal blond curls. Her slippers slide on the cobblestones, the hood of her
Tess runs ahead of me, heading for the rose garden-our sanctuary, our one safe place. Not a single day goes by that I don’t wish for her guidance. OUR MOTHER WAS A WITCH, TOO, but she hid it better.
0 kommentar(er)
