One morning, when the ache in her heart became too great to ignore, she followed that inner pull — through forest and sunlight — to where a white horse waited at the edge of the trees.

It had been Peter’s promise of America that kept Mary going—the thought of a new life beyond servitude, beyond the endless polishing of silver and mending of lace.

One day, as she was working in the garden while her mother rested from a headache, she wandered into the rose patch—a special section filled with different varieties of roses: pinks and reds, whites, and even one that looked purple. She and her mother could never quite figure out how one particular rose bush looked so violet in the sunlight.

Madame Sue Soderburg stopped, her face drawn, a cigarette burning in between her fingers despite the early hour. “They’re framing me for Roberta’s murder.”

On the mantle, a photograph in a tarnished frame showed a stern man, two children, and a woman with a hauntingly blank stare.

The little girl giggled and patted Needle’s trunk. “I think the tree heard me.”

Up and up and up the butterfly went, until it reached the very tippy tops of the trees.

The canyon stretched before them under a half-moon. Cattle shuffled along the dusty trail below. Someone was stealing her livestock again.

“I thought I belonged up here,” she whispered. “But now I see I belong in the in-between.

It is with reverence and a hush of winter stillness that I present to you this series of letters from Mrs. Marian Tate—a young widow dwelling alone in the Kansas Territory during that first long, uncertain season of 1855.

Sagebrush Ridge Territory of Kansas September to April 1855 The wind whispered secrets through the tallgrass of the Kansas prairie, rustling the pages of Marian Tate’s latest letter. Ink stained her calloused fingers as she carefully formed each word, her gaze often drifting towards the figure resting on the cot in the corner of her small cabin. Hank Dawson. He’d arrived weeks ago, a broken man found near her property line, feverish and clutching a shattered leg. Marian,

“You are a listener too, child. The tree chose you for that.” Elspeth blinked. “Chose me?” “You hear what others forget. You believe in what breathes beneath the bark and behind the veil.”

The moment her fingers met his, the rooftop fell away in a swirl of stars and wind. Her shawl fluttered like wings, and her skirts rippled,.

Her badge caught the sun just as a rider thundered down Main Street, raising a cloud of red clay behind him. Mercy recognized the horse before the man: the gray Appaloosa with a split ear. Wild Rye, Everett Tate's mare.

"Foxes don't talk," she said automatically,...The fox's whiskers twitched in what might have been amusement. "And humans don't lose their shadows—unless the fair folk steal them."

Lyra’s head snapped up, her eyes, usually so veiled, flashing with a desperate hope. She moved to the bars, her fingers clutching them, knuckles white. “They… they bought me,”

Harold listened intently, his expression serious. “Those townies are all bluster. But you gotta be careful. Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you scared.” He then grinned, his eyes twinkling. “Though I gotta admit, using Maharani as backup was a stroke of genius!”

Three weeks had passed since consumption had claimed Catherine, her only sibling and closest companion. Their parents had departed years earlier, leaving the sisters to rely solely upon each other. Now, at twenty-six, Adelaide was utterly alone in their modest townhouse in Bloomsbury.

Cottonwood Springs Nebraska Territory 1863 The stagecoach rattled to a stop, sending plumes of dust into the parched air of Cottonwood Springs. Lillian McAllister clutched her valise in one hand and steadied her bonnet with the other as she stepped down onto the wooden platform. The town stretched before her, a single dusty street lined with weathered buildings that had seen better days, much like the weary faces that turned to appraise her. "Schoolteacher?" the stagecoach

Her mind wandered to the meaning of the larkspur, a flower embodying joy and an open heart...