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She slept She drea in a language as far fro rain was fro, too A hand held hers, and she couldn’t see whose it was but only felt herself spinning spinning spinning, safe in a circle , the yard held a fresh set of preacher tracks and another gift on the porch--a fra face--so Neve knew it had been all and only drea and tricked into dancing, dancing all alone

"Stupid," she whispered, and gave the portrait a nudge with her toe She wanted to kick it out into the , and hoping for what, dancing and a pair of strong arain, with more veno its tricks She stumped into her boots andblock, and she thought ood is a hen that won’t lay?

About as irl on’t ave a sleepy blink "What do you say, old girl? Did youNeve knew it It was pathetic that she still checked--proof that hope had its hooks in her, whatever she ht think--

She let out a chuff of surprise There was an egg "Well done, you," she said to Potpie, unreasonably pleased for such a s She reached for it Took it She picked it up and held it and knew that it was not an egg

It looked like an egg

But it wasn’t an egg

An egg feels like nothing but what it is This was too light It was air and shell and so was not yolk and fluid, and Neve should have wanted to drop it--not even wanted to but just done it instantly, instinctively, as a reaction to a wrongness But she didn’t drop it She did not, in fact, sense a wrongness She held the egg, and it arhtness

Breakfast forgotten for the second day running, she carried it back across the yard, and once she was inside she looked at it so shifted in it when she moved it, and she wondered what to do She could leave it as it was, intact But eggs aren’t meant to remain intact, are they? They’re erly, and the sound itat the rishell split and opened and the so inside it … sparkled Neve spilled it into the cup of her palm and couldn’t believe her eyes

It was a beetle

From her dream of Nasty Gully Here was one of the jewel beetles, and it had a dia as a star encased in crystal--and two half es and opened at her touch, and its head was an emerald with cabochon eyes of soold Like in her dreaht, as though faeries had measured her for it in her sleep

At first there was only wonders in slow, astonished delight Then the questions crept in