Work Text:
Margaret was four when she first heard the breeze.
She was five before she could talk back, sending it winding down cobblestone streets, carrying rain, aromas, secrets.
She was six when the wind repeated Healer Hurst’s words to her mother, there’s nothing we can do, feeling powerless. Leo had brought flowers, Lily-of-the-valleys in a beautiful blue ribbon. She kept them fresh for months, after. They remind me of you, my little pearl. My little Margo.
She was seven when vampires set her Alley ablaze. But she wasn’t powerless. She pulled and down came the wind. And with it, the rain.