54
Bradamante dreamed of a flower-laden field.
Yellow daisies. Purplish-blue bluebells. Delicate white snowflake flowers she remembered gathering sometimes when she was small.
She was small again now. About six or seven years old.
There were bruises all up and down her arms. Her jawline hurt as though someone had punched it. Her scalp ached from where someone had yanked her roughly by the hair.
Her mother had hurt her again.
But Bradamante didn’t care. She was lying on her back in a field of flowers underneath a perfect blue sky, the warm sun shining down golden on her face.
Get up.
Naldo was away somewhere, probably helping their father somewhere on the farm, but he would know to look for her here. Then they could go explore in the woods or hunt rabbits or fish in the cool clear s
