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The ornament of a house is
the friends who frequent it
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON
1
Autumn 1268
MISTS SPIRALED UP FROM THE WATER LIKE BREATH AS Eaht as it woke fro birds to their chorus He heard the cock crow, so arrogant and i of sheep as they cropped their way across the green fields
Fa for the last five years
But this wasn’t ho, how familiar, it would never be home
And ho down to his bones like an old h his heart like a lover scorned
And under the wishing, aching, longing, bleeding, lived a sie that could bubble up and scorch his throat like thirst
Soreat woods where he knew every tree, every turn of the track And sohts the dreams were real as life, so he could smell the peat fire, the sweet rushes of his bed with the lavender his ood dreams
He could hear her voice, her singing soft from below the loft where she mixed her potions and brews
The Dark Witch, they’d called her—with respect—for she’d been powerful and strong And kind and good So sohts when he drea from below the loft, he ith tears on his cheeks