“Mother Marrow gestures to the soup, and I, who can afford no more enemies, bring it to my lips. It tastes of a memory I cannot quite place, warm afternoons and splashing in pools and kicking plastic toys across the brown grass of summer lawns. Tears spring to my eyes. I want to spill it out in to the dirt. I want to drink it down to the dregs.” MemoriesSummerMemoryHolly BlackSoupThe Folk Of The AirJude DuarteJudeThe Wicked KingMother Marrow Book:The Wicked King Source: The Wicked King