Button tugs at Gwen’s hand and toddles toward the ridge, prompting her to stoop awkwardly as they walk together. At the edge of the hill, the land slopes down into a shallow vale, where a small, clear pond glimmers in the light.
A narrow creek winds down from the far woods—its source a spring called Bear Creek, so named (says Grand-Paw, when asked) because even the bears find it sweet and cold on their tongues. It spills merrily into the pond, sending out soft musical babble that echoes across the small vale.
“That’s Honeydrop Pond,” Hazel calls from behind. “Because when the sun hits it just right, it looks like someone spilled golden syrup into the middle.”
Dragonflies buzz lazily around the edges, flitting over cattails and reeds. One larger mote, yellow-gold in the sunlight, flitters around at a small fishing dock!