The wet earth smells of mushroom and loam. I race through the trees. Branches reach for my eyes and tangle my hair. My kirtle rips, but I still run, faster through the woodland, escaping the murderous men who chase behind me with vicious, barking dog...
At a family meeting, Ror declares her purpose: She is an artist. But she doesn't really know what that means. Raised on a commune, she's never attended a day of school, and has seen little of the outside world. What she knows best is drawing. To ...