“Does the moor really speak?” I ask, watching the tea in the cup grow dark. “Not in the way we do, you and I. Not with words. But it has its secrets, yes.” Secrets. That’s how my father used to put it, too. “What does it sound like? What does it feel like?” I ask, half to myself. “I imagine it must feel like more, rather than less. I wish I could—” “Lexi Harris, you could eat dirt every day and wear only weeds, and you’d be no closer to any of it than you already are.”
