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Flowers, Rosie was quite certain, weren't supposed to grow that quickly. Not two days ago, the vacant lot she passed on her way to and from the Home had been exactly that: a bare rectangle of dirt, drab and a bit unsightly, host to brief skirmishes between stray cats and an occasional dumping ground for discarded cigarette butts and other trash.
Today--how changed it all was! The hard and dusty ground of the lot was now lush and vibrant, covered in a profusion of grass and clumps of the brightest pink wildflowers Rosie had ever seen. Even the air itself felt gentler somehow, sweet scents wafting on the breeze and the faint sound of bees buzzing from blossom to blossom. It's like a bit of Anterwold, plopped into Darrow, she thinks, feeling suddenly, strangely homesick for a place she'd merely visited. Somewhere in Lady Catherine's forest, a place like this must exist; a quiet retreat from the world, a glade or valley of unsurpassing beauty. Rosie wished she'd seen it, if only so she might compare it to the scene before her now.
Out of curiosity, or perhaps to convince herself that it's real, she brushes a hand against the clump of flowers growing closest to where she stands on the pavement--and pauses in surprise almost immediately. There, beyond the curve of the stems, Rosie can just make out a rich golden glow. Crouching down, she uses her other hand to part the stems further, peering through the gap at racks and racks of honeycomb.
Today--how changed it all was! The hard and dusty ground of the lot was now lush and vibrant, covered in a profusion of grass and clumps of the brightest pink wildflowers Rosie had ever seen. Even the air itself felt gentler somehow, sweet scents wafting on the breeze and the faint sound of bees buzzing from blossom to blossom. It's like a bit of Anterwold, plopped into Darrow, she thinks, feeling suddenly, strangely homesick for a place she'd merely visited. Somewhere in Lady Catherine's forest, a place like this must exist; a quiet retreat from the world, a glade or valley of unsurpassing beauty. Rosie wished she'd seen it, if only so she might compare it to the scene before her now.
Out of curiosity, or perhaps to convince herself that it's real, she brushes a hand against the clump of flowers growing closest to where she stands on the pavement--and pauses in surprise almost immediately. There, beyond the curve of the stems, Rosie can just make out a rich golden glow. Crouching down, she uses her other hand to part the stems further, peering through the gap at racks and racks of honeycomb.
