Come Little Children: Book I
Who is to say that there are stories left to go untold?
On the outside of a village with a name long forgotten, there is a garden. It is a labyrinth of flowers of all sorts, some are poison and do not squeal in fright at the slightest bristle of wind like the rest. The garden is enticing, stopping every travelling knight or vagabond in their pathes simply to view it. But this story isn't about the garden, no, it is about the voice (every bit as enticing as the garden itself) that weaves its lullaby through the garden once a month. Seldom few can hear the melodic tune, fewer know the goings on of the full moon when Katerina's lullaby comes to play. Would you be so bold as to take a peek, or are you so weakminded that you will anyway?
In the War of the Roses, every rose is said to have a thorn.
