The villagers came at dusk.
She blessed them all that evening: the old man whose joints had locked in the cold (she laid her belly against his knees, and they creaked open like buds), the child who had not spoken since the first frost (she let the child’s ear rest against her navel—a sound like sap rising, like a seed cracking its shell—and the child laughed), and the young couple whose bed had been barren for two winters (she took their joined hands and placed them over her heart, then over hers, and whispered: “When the snow leaves, so will your grief.” ) lisette, priestess of spring pregnancy
“Tomorrow,” Lisette said softly, “you will find eggs.” The villagers came at dusk
Lisette smiled. She lifted her woolen tunic just enough to reveal the pale skin of her stomach, where a faint green-gold light pulsed beneath the surface, like sunlight through new leaves. She took the woman’s cold hands and pressed them to her belly. She took the woman’s cold hands and pressed