The fete field, the morning after, looked like the aftermath of a small and cheerful army. Trestle tables lay folded; bunting sagged; a single lost glove flagged from a hedge. And at the edge of the bottom field, by the willow, the grass told Beatrice a story in three plain sentences. The first sentence was a patch of flattened green
That's the preview — keep reading:
No ads, ever — go all-access with NovelStack+ for $6.99/month.