“I have these,” Margaret said, holding out the black stones in her hot hand. Her sister, Lott was hanging washing on the line, the heavy white sheets whipped in the wind. “But they were mama’s.”

“Yes, but they’re not valuable. It’s only onyx,” said Margaret.
Lott turned back to the sheets in the wind, “It won’t work.”

That evening, Margaret stood right in the teeth of the gale and slipped the black stones into the tree sprite’s palm. His skin felt like wind. Oh, she wanted so much. “Where will I find you?” she said. But he had already closed his palm and splintered like a dandelion.