Nora's POV
I pull my cloak hood up against the biting wind. The temperature has dropped at least ten degrees since I entered the forest, and I'm regretting not grabbing my heavier coat. Gray clouds roll across the sky, swallowing the weak sunlight whole.
This dreary weather will be my reality for months. Midwest winters stretch endlessly, filled with days exactly like this one.
"If it weren't for the Watson line," I mutter under my breath, watching Evangeline leap gracefully over a fallen log, "we could be living somewhere tropical."
Mack glances back at me with that look cats get when they think you're being ridiculous. Every February, Ophelia and I swear we're done with this climate and make elaborate plans to relocate to someplace with year-round sunshine. Then spring arrives, the snow melts, and we remember why we love Vivian Hill.
