The wind along the high northern moors blew cold. Sheep drifted across the grass like clouds across the sky. The sky arched overhead, clear blue and icy, tall and wide like the best witches’ hat in the world.
Tiffany sat on the grass, feeling the flint beneath the limestone down to her bones, sharp and hard. It was nestled between the fossils of long-dead things, small and unimportant, but still part of the whole, like the experiences that had made Tiffany the witch that she was, grown on limestone sheep country.