myrica

Myrica turned from the building and picked up the child.

Myrica looked at the small limp form in her arms.

Myrica took a deep breath and bit her lower lip.

Myrica leaned back, careful not to hold the baby too close.

Myrica stopped the door as the woman tried to slam it in her face.

The stick pulled against Myrica's hand, leading her down a dark alley.

Rubra turned her back to Myrica and held the child closely.

Myrica knew the red liquid was to be part of the magic used to disguise her son.

Myrica followed it until she reached a stone house with a lamp burning in the window.

When they reached the town, Myrica slipped along the streets, hiding in the shadows.

Myrica struggled to stand, but fell in a pool of blood and afterbirth.

Myrica ran, the baby still in her arms.

Myrica spotted a small basket tucked into a green thicket.

Myrica pulled on her worn suede boots and tied them at the ankle.

Please, Myrica, think about the Fay children of the future."

Myrica rocked the baby and fumbled in her pocket.

Myrica tied the baby sling to the lower branches of a white pine and climbed to its top.

Myrica wrapped her dead son next to her breast and climbed down the hillside.

The words sprang from Myrica like a curse, rasping her throat raw.

One tree, imported from the Canary Islands, is the myrica.

Myrica walked out into the crisp morning.

Opening her cloak, Myrica exposed the still form of Cedrus.

Myrica wiped the tears from her face.

The Elder pointed the bottom of her wooden staff toward Myrica, then pounded it on the floor three times.

Myrica tried to stand again.