Honeysuckle

Prologue

The sky is endless. All she can hear is the sway of flowers, the rustle of feathers, the soft, heavy sound of the snow settling a mere footstep away. And then, faintly, a damselfly-wing brush of sound, her name.

No, she thinks. No, please.

“Come back.” The words are like fishing rods, lines arching to catch at her skin.

Ready to pull her down, down, down. Already, mud is crawling up the arches of her feet, her toes, her ankles, as if preparing to hold her in place.

There’s a sinking sensation in her chest. The taste of leaf dust in her mouth, dry and ash-like.

No, she thinks again, helplessly.

But it’s already too late.