(by laura makabresku)
Her green-gold eyes flare strangely, like flickers of fairy-light over the lake at dusk. “Catkin,” she says again, and her voice is less than a whisper now; less even than an echo. A soughing of wind through cattails, and it raises the hairs at the nape of my neck. “For whom do you flesh that deerskin?” she asks, and her hands still over her bridal doeskins for my reply.
“For a boy,” I whisper. “A strong, handsome boy, as golden as the sun.”
“For your mate,” she breathes, in a voice like a dead tree groaning in the wind, and I shiver, but not in fear. “Do you wish him to nuzzle your cheek and put fawns in your belly?” she asks.
~ When the Moon Fell in Love with the Sun, Ch 11, “Scarlet Ribbons”