There’s a hush in the glade this morning. The children are gathered around Roseann, sat by the tree stump in the center. They sit patiently, talking in hushed tones. The Whisperer boys fidget incessantly but quell under Roseann’s glare. Dyl sits with them, on a makeshift chair the Whisperers have cobbled together from branches and spare canvas, seeing as his preferred tree stump has been commandeered by fungus. He sits forward, leaning against his cane, watching the children with silent intensity.
They all keep glancing at the tree stump they’re gathered around and no-one wants to get too close. Solma doesn’t blame them. It’s completely transformed. The silver threads are barely visible now, having woven through the dead wood, but Solma knows they’re still there, under the surface. The st
