My father reached into his pocket, his fingers stiff, and retrieved the brilliant blue light. He placed the Well Card at the foot of my bed and stepped back. Upon the Card, secured with a single piece of twine, was a dried yarrow stalk. “Your mother gifted me this Card when we wed,” he said, his voice low. “Her father had given it to her, but she wanted me to have it. ‘What need have I for a Well?’ she’d said in her usual lighthearted way. ‘Only a man would need a Card to keep track of his enemies.’” He never talked of my mother. It splintered something in me, watching his eyes grow glassy. “I
...more
