byThe moon climbed high behind a shifting gray veil as two figures trudged through the glade of trees. Without a word, Grandmother stopped. She indicated the ground where her grandson was to dig. The boy loosened the dirt with the spade and dug a small hole. The old woman clutched her shawl with one hand and bent over the frigid soil as she reached into the earth.
“It’s a bit cold, Grandmother,” he said quietly. “Are you sure it will grow?”
“The Dragonclaw always grows if well tended, child,” the woman said. “There’s more to be told, but tonight we must hasten to plant it. We do not know how long her labor will be.”
The boy nodded as he packed the ground over the plant’s clawlike root. The leaves that dripped from the stubs of withered branches were still red. A haze seemed to cling to
