Through the garden, the damp soil sucking at our shoes. Arm in arm, we picked our way past the scrying pool, as bright as a tossed coin, through the thistles with their purple buds, careful to bypass Rose’s delicate meshwork of baby’s breath and feverfew. The flowering pear tree coughed white petals at us, but all the monsters were cowed or slumbering.
Asking the reader to imagine A LOT here...
