Now she is six years old on a red blanket and someone is calling her name. Not the name she carries now but her first name: Flora. “Flora!” She is asleep in the afternoon sunlight, a plaid wool blanket over her and Berry tucked under her arm, his fur resting on her cheek, when the familiar voice wakes her from a deep nap. Waking, rising to her feet, she moves toward the voice. But there is her starry river, the river her sister does not ever let her get too near. The river in her magical land of Whisperwood. She inches closer when she slips and Berry falls near the water. That voice, it calls
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