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Summary
A winterberry stem sat poised in Enid’s hand as she regarded Wednesday. “I like making things—I used to. Wreaths are just versions I can do while also being useful.”
Wednesday heard the tense. “What did you make before?”
Enid lowered her gaze. “Drawings. Mostly. Illustrations.”
“Of what?”
“Animals. Forests. Storybook stuff. Nothing serious.”
“Seriousness and value have a poor correlation.”
For a second, Enid offered nothing. Then, she said, so quietly it surprised her, “You can see them some time. If you want.”
“I do.”
“No hesitation at all?”
“I see no benefit feigning indifference.”
/ / /
Staying a quarter-mile from the Sinclair Christmas tree farm wasn’t how Wednesday imagined her winter.
But some plans are best ruined by a blizzard, a shared bed, and someone worth making new ones with.