The Ill-Fated Fortunes of a Steampunk Madam V: Dry

A crisp autumn breeze stirred among the sun-dried leaves scattered across the lawn, sending them skirling and swirling above the overgrown bluegrass fronds.

The nearly barren fingertips of the ancient maple tree were dry and gnarled in their wrinkled bark skin as they tickled a whisper of song from the zephyr that zipped and zagged among them.

And deep in the earth-bound roots of that tree, the dry, forgotton bones of a dry, forgotten hag...shifted. They stirred. They strained.