The first time a tree called me by name, I was thirteen and only spoke a weave of ordinary tongues.

It started with a leaf and next, a mist came down from the hills, beating a lone skin drum, looking for me.

Scarlet pimpernels dropped hints that could not be ignored: no red is innocent.

Badger trails called me aside for a word. Come underground, they said, see what we are made of.

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