Whispers of the Past

The air in Blackwood, usually thick with the scent of damp earth and something vaguely menacing, now carried a faint, sickly sweetness. It was the smell of decay, and it made my thorns droop with a misery that mirrored my own. Lily, bless her relentlessly optimistic soul, skipped ahead, her bright yellow cloak a beacon against the deepening gloom. I, on the other hand, shuffled along, my own shadow clinging to me like a particularly stubborn burr.

"Are we almost there, Amy?" she chirped, her voice echoing a little too cheerfully. "I can feel it, you know. The answer. The cure."

I snorted, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. "You can *feel* it? Darling, the only thing I'm feeling is the distinct sensation of my magic packing its bags and heading for a warmer climate. And frankly, I can't blame it." I gestured vaguely at a particularly pathetic-looking bramble bush, its thorns curled inward like tiny, defeated fists. "Look at this. It’s practically weeping. Weeping, I tell you!"