Chapter Six
It was tradition in Dapple Vale to usher in each summer with bonfires and dancing. Gone were the cold, dark days of winter, gone were the spring frosts and mud. The days were growing longer, the wildflowers blossomed, and the great trees in the forest were clothed in fresh green leaves. Summer beckoned, full of warmth and sunlight, ripening crops, and fat livestock. And to mark this—to welcome it—bonfires blazed high, animals were roasted on the spit, ale poured, voices raised in song—and not a few children were conceived.
On the afternoon of the last day of spring, Maythorn and her daughters put out their hearth fire, swept up the embers and ashes, and laid fresh kindling; they’d bring home a brand from the bonfire and light their fire for the year ahead. They bathed in the
