But it was the water that mattered most to Frankie. The deep green of the stagnant lake behind Oph’s farmhouse was the color of her heart after dark. The sound of lapping shoreline against loamy clay eased her every anxiety. Some nights when sleep wouldn’t come, Sofia on her mind and her heart hurting like a paper cut, she’d imagine that sound like the coming rush of June bugs, picture the creamy echo of moon slivers against the surface of the water. It was the only type of magic she’d ever been willing to accept.
