I dreamt that Linne Doran and Mosswood Hollow froze over in a new mini ice age. Everybody at Lake Margaret’s modest elevation had to flee down the hill because the ice came so quickly. It was an enchanted kind of ice, brought on by some untrustworthy spirits, and mysterious beasts now ruled the new winter wonderland. We have never seen their tracks before. At the bottom of the hill in Duvall town it was summer, with broadleaf trees all blooming green and blue sky, and the Mosswood refugees lived in a great big painted hobbit hole made of snaking roots. Herbs and flowers covered the garden, and a river ran through it. Our friends, Meatball and Weasel, got to run the place, mostly, when the real wizards weren’t home.
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