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Something warm rose in my chest. I couldn’t tell if it was anger, sadness, or pride—possibly a mixture of all three. “Yes, well, my mother taught me well.”
“Yes. It seems she did.”
Silence descended as we continued to the clearing, the temperature dropping another few bone-chilling degrees as the last of the sun’s rays faded behind the trees.
“Here we are.” With a swipe of his hand, the Weaver ripped open another slice in space, the English countryside visible beyond. “Ladies first.”
This time I felt no fear as I stepped through, grateful to be somewhere warm and familiar in the oddest way. Odd because it was clear I was still dreaming, yet this place felt familiar, still filled with my favorite things.
I ran a hand across the velvet petals of a plump English rose, inhaling its sweet scent. “Thank you for bringing me back here. Out of all the dreams you’ve created for me, I think this one is my favorite.”
The Weaver didn’t answer right away, his soft footsteps shuffling a few paces behind me.
“I’m glad you like it. But I don’t create the dreams, Milly. I simply weave the magic required to pull them from your soul.”
