We fill our homes with candles that represent nothing more than a cozy glow, and we gather ’round our gas logs or Franklin stoves even when our houses are fitted with central heating systems, because there’s something – some magical thing – about fire that seems to drive away the stress and darkness of winter in a way that electric light never can.
A handful of pearls. That was all Nerissa had. Oh, she’d grown up in Poseidon’s Grotto, with abalone combs and aquamarine and moonstone gems, but when she’d left the great ocean to marry a land-walker, she’d forfeit her jewels and pirate’s treasure hoards and kept only the handful of her nameday pearls.
And on solstice mornings, with landwalker-entrancing song and candy darters, they would send me out to play and I would glide through the swaying kelp searching for news of the Seven Seas,
