“There’s magic here,” she said, almost in a whisper, and then more loudly so Cara could hear clearly, “But of course there would be. Always magic in the forest: so much life. Living and dying and feeding the new life…”
“Is it enough?”
“Enough? Enough?” the old woman spat. “It’s not a wick to be burned, girl. It’s not lantern-fuel. It’s a material to be formed, for the moment, for as long as needed, and then sent on its way with our thanks in its pocket.”
“Fine, fine. I’m sorry. But can you do it?”
“Go home. Wait for him.”
No comments:
Post a Comment