The distant tree line was heavy with Caux’s birds. The townsfolk, rallied by Peps, looked pale and drawn. Ivy, studying her friends, saw faces tense with worry. Evening came, with no word—nor sign of Cecil. Skeins of gloamwort twine were strung around the encampment, spilling their faint glow in the absence of fire. Springform tents had sprouted up—regal, billowing white structures that supplied a surprising amount of comfort—but Ivy preferred the counsel of the two albatrosses to four canvas walls. Someone—Gudgeon, Ivy thought—had sewn a banner that now rippled upon a pole atop the largest tent—a familiar three-pronged leaf. The sprig of poison ivy blazed across a white background of the flag. “What now?” Ivy asked Lofft as she sat against his folded wing. Shoo hopped upon the earth at her feet. “We wait.” His voice sounded tired. “For what?” she wondered. “For morning,” Klair answered. Ivy pulled her knees to her chin and huddled between the enormous seabirds.
What do You think about The Shepherd Of Weeds (2011)?
