“Still not going to take my magic?” Midnight asks, standing in the door to her yurt with her hands on her hips, dressed in a fairly fantastic collection of clothes that she clearly picked for herself with enthusiasm from the insanely large selection my mom bought for her.
I smile, taking in the three scarves that Midnight has stacked over a sundress, which she wears over a pair of jeans that she’s tucked into a pair of yellow rubber boots. A jaunty winter hat is pulled down over her curls, the fuzzy purple pompom on top wobbling back and forth whenever she moves.
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