Their voices, high and fluting then low and secret. Words cupped behind leaves, sepals curling with glee.
And their eyes.
Bright and knowing. Watching her. Waiting.
Gwyn curled her fingers into her fist, one by one as she stared back. For one breathless moment, she envisioned herself gripping slender stems and tugging upward, hard and sharp. Exposing root to sky, scattering the daisies’ secrets on the wind along with wishes and petals.
But the beastly things were sentient, and she was not a murderess.
Not yet, anyway.