Blackfeather Woods voodoo stonecrop

The woman’s words turn soft after the harsh bark but Ocracoke still flinches, keeping herself on the ground. It takes a few seconds to even consider moving. No one in the Woods has been mean or hurt her in anyway but she can’t fight the instinctual reaction. Whatever spark had been in her some months ago has long since diminished, the candle burnt so low there’s no wax left. 

But the thing that catches her the most is how she admits to being a midwife as an afterthought. It’s too obvious now. Her jaw clenches and she turns to where she thinks she might be, but can’t find it in herself to ask. Eventually, she turns away, and slowly crawls along the ground to find her spot in the glen in hopes she’ll be left alone.