The world in Felicity's space was nothing like the ashen wilds outside, and it hit Damien like a scented lamp shattered on the stone floor: the riotous bloom, the thick velvet heat of the air, the hush of green things untouched by predators or weather or time.
He barely had time to orient himself before she was leading him by the hand her palm was soft, her grip stubborn through a trellis arched with grapevine and flowers, petals brushing at his wrists and the crook of his elbow. Overhead, fuschia-tongued hummingbirds zipped, wings shuddering, and somewhere deeper in the riot, a bell or chime rang out a thin, clear note.
