If there was someone living in the cottage, they were either a horrible housekeeper or an expert at disguise. Yulian couldn’t tell if the spidery vines had been cultivated or have just conveniently grown along the southern wall until they had engulfed the building in a sea of grey-green leaves. He touched the plants, feather-light, with his gift, cautious not to alarm the drowsy consciousness. Here, People?
He waited a long moment as the plant pondered the question. After a span, the ivy deduced that the warm-things were People, and that the warm-thing asking the question was looking for other People and not himself. Here People, not.
|These snippits are copyright Martha McMahon Bechtel and may not be reproduced or distributed without express permission. All rights reserved.|