The Sentinels old gypsy woman spoke to me

deirdre walked this day with an owl-feather entwined behind her ear, tree-syrup letting it stick there for what was likely just the hour. she was careful in feeling it there, and triumphant: she had learned the magick of six flowers, and seven, apparently, was a magickal number itself! and so the great old owl had given her a feather for a reward, and when it fell from her ear, she would store it in the collection she only, just today, had begun. the growing babe caught the sight of a familiar face, one that had only just come to them. though he had returned to some, he was new to her, though he was her brother and for that deirdre loved him already. 

she pranced toward him with warm emerald eyes, her tail waving as she paused what she felt was a safe distance away. love him though she may, she was still nervous before him, as she had only heard tales of him. hello, she greeted, thinking this a safe start.