“Oh, my,” she says softly, after a moment. It’s a sigh, and the leszy can’t tell what kind. “What is it you see, my lady?” the leszy finally dares to ask. She looks at him as if only just noticing him, though they’ve met before. Few mortals make it to this point, but “few” is not “none.” “He will have the flower,” the noonwraith says. “My lady?” “That is my word. And my word is my word.”
