Morning on a Changed Farm
Sera is awake, and better — a night behind cold iron seems to have steadied her — but the grey streak on her flank is a finger-width wider than it was, and you both pretend not to notice.
Then you step outside, and the farm has gone strange.
The pumpkins in the kitchen garden, which yesterday were the size of soccer balls, are the size of armchairs. The hens are laying eggs speckled silver, and one of them — Doris — has taken to sitting on the fence staring at the barn with an expression of religious awe. The weathervane on the barn roof has stopped caring about weather entirely: no matter which way the wind blows, the little iron rooster points at the cellar window.
“Magic leaks,” Sera explains, embarrassed, when you tell her. “I'm a lot of magic in a small world, Madison. It puddles. It soaks. It makes things… enthusiastic.”
Out past the orchard fence, though, is the other thing. The grey patches where the wolves walked haven't faded. They've grown, joined up, like spilled water finding itself. That corner of the meadow doesn't rustle in the wind anymore.