Description:There are some strange things happening at the edge of reality where love is forever even when death isn’t and where magic doesn’t have to be seen to be believed.
Henry Collins' quiet life is changed forever the day he buries his little sister.
Her death forces him to enter a strange world whose very existence he spent his whole life denying--a dark wilderness where the old magic thrives--a place far darker and deadlier than the Appalachia he grew up in. To avenge his sister Henry must slip past the boundaries of logic and reason to a place where the only reality is survival. He won't be able to come home until his life is no longer simple, his heart no longer kind.
This is a tale of star-crossed lovers and civil revenge by uncivil hands, written in blood that is barely thicker than water.
If I could’ve carried her by myself, I would have. But just the weight of the pine and spruce box was more than I could bear alone. The linens that covered her body and her clothes, the last she’d ever wear, made her heavier. The coins that covered her eyes added a few ounces more.
I could’ve carried her, by herself, forever.
January wasn’t a kind time for a burial, but we don’t get to choose. Old Christmas hid the sun behind a flat grey wall of clouds. January has a way of taking a person's optimism and crushing it beneath its bony heel.
I’d take June, when long days kept wayward pessimism at bay for just a few hours more, when blackberry blossoms spilt over old stone fences while young rabbits got fat and lazy. I’d take Solstice over Old Christmas any day.
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