Honeysuckle

She was muttering a steady stream of words, but whenever Rory tried edging close enough to hear, she’d shoo him back, sending him for white flowers from the far edge of the meadow, for a handful of moss and honeysuckle vines from the forest, for an old dress from the attic. Rory tried to step between Daye and the village kids, but they were suddenly everywhere, loud and shadowy and so much bigger than Daye and him. In Rory’s head, the new solution was instantaneous—the transition, this last transition of its kind, a clear line of demarcation between dependence and freedom. The vibrations traveled down and away, rippling to the edges of his land until, finally, they settled into an almost imperceptible hum.