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“The moon repeated her phases on the exact same solar calendar day once every nineteen years. And she had just turned nineteen! So nineteen years ago, at this time, the moon would have been new. She would have been just born, and her magic would have been deadly. So that explained the nurse. But the other times? She couldn't remember. All she could clearly think of was that once when she was very, very upset about killing a game hen- more than usual- she had gone to weep and look out the window for hours. The sky was as black as her mind and spirit felt, and the usually comforting stars were pinprick harsh, untwinkling. Each was a stab into her heart. There was no moon.” — Liz Braswell
The moon repeated her phases on the exact same solar calendar day once every nineteen years.
And she had just turned nineteen! So nineteen years ago, at this time, the moon would have been new.
She would have been just born, and her magic would have been deadly. So that explained the nurse.
But the other times?
She couldn't remember. All she could clearly think of was that once when she was very, very upset about killing a game hen- more than usual- she had gone to weep and look out the window for hours. The sky was as black as her mind and spirit felt, and the usually comforting stars were pinprick harsh, untwinkling. Each was a stab into her heart. There was no moon.