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Summary
James Potter’s hands were rough. They’d always been so, for as long as his memory was clear, soft dirt caught perpetually underneath the beds of his fingernails. There were flower stains on the tips of his fingers from lilies and tulips, they stain bright yellow, like dipping your fingers in sunlight. His calluses were from digging with heavy hoes and shovels. From the same movements, over and over for days that fold into months that run into years.
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A fairy tale woven of the stars, of the roses, of a prince trapped in a tower, and the peasant gardener who fell in love with him.
Series
- Part 1 of The Brothers Peverell Fairy Tales