Luna woke up for the sixth time that morning with a bucket of goat milk in her hands and a man named Bartholomew yelling about breakfast turnips.
She blinked. The sun was just rising. Again. The bucket in her hands was, as usual, sloshing uncomfortably. And Bartholomew—the stocky villager with two eyebrows and no patience—was stomping through the mud, shouting.
“Turnips, girl! Ain’t no breakfast without ‘em! And none of that fancy dream magic this time! You hear me?!”
Luna took a deep breath.
Looked down at the goat.
Looked at the sky.
Then looked directly into the invisible camera of the universe.
“I’m going to scream.”
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From behind the barn, a sleepy Saffy emerged, hair sticking out in three directions, cloak on backward, holding a single buttered r****h like it was the only
