Fairspell Meadow shed every skin that no longer fits

The poppies she'd cultivated so lovingly within Blackfeather Woods were not here. She doubted they would even survive here; the weather had turned cold, windy, the ground frosted over. She made intermittent trips back to the trees to her caches, furtively ingesting the black seeds before returning to the meadow.

She was in a constant daze, a drowsy, droopy state of being. Sakhmet and Sobek were kept within the field of her vision, even if they were merely dark shapes in the distance—but close enough that she could reach them if need be. Maybe. In grief and in intoxication, she dragged herself along, skirting the borders like the ghost her pale son once was—now, truly, was.

Maegi thought she was hallucinating upon seeing the child but upon coming further, his scent entered her nostrils, pungently briny. She walked his way, giving him a cursory look-over before she spoke. Young, not much older than her own three two children. Clutching a. . .

What on earth is that you have? she asked softly, more in wonder than in scorn. She met his tired gaze, a maternal warmth returning to eyes for days so dead. Who are you?