Evangeline Vale

I sit in the overstuffed, and overdecorated, throne and watch everyone I know act like they are possessed by trickster fae. The elders, with their bluing wisps of hair, rugged hands and watery eyes, prance around the fire in the centre of the village square. Their hunched backs and arthritic hips doing nothing to prevent them from being a part of ‘my big night’. Vintora, my godmother, cackles as she twirls fire lace in the air. Even in her twilight years she has the energy of a new adult. The children sit around the edges dressed in various hues of green, all to honour me. Little Meia has fallen asleep on a bemused looking Dach in the front row. The tinkle of my mother’s laughter, as she serves up her wild boar, can just be heard under the bassy boom of my father, as he retells the tales of his ceremony…

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