CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Sunlight filters through the canopy of trees, casting a dappled pattern on the forest floor as I weave between the trunks. The air is crisp, laced with the scent of pine and the undercurrent of damp earth. It's the morning of the Solstice, and Ivy and I have been up since dawn, gathering garlands of holly and ivy, threading them with berries and the occasional flourish of feathers we find on our path.
"Here, hang this one up high," Ivy says, passing me a particularly lush strand of greenery. Her cheeks are flushed with the cold, her breath puffing out in white clouds that seem to dance before disappearing into the chilled air.
I stretch up, standing on the tips of my toes to drape the garland over a protruding branch. My fingers are numb despite my gloves, but there's
