City of inheritance

Island of Calling Women

The night was good. A bright black sky with a scattering of stars, like a silk scarf with sparks that my father brought to my mother from the mainland. The moon, like a thin sickle-boat, floated among the stars. The night flowers smelled stupefyingly—large white and blue bells suspended from thin stalks that sagged under their weight. As these flowers are called, Dorana could not remember, although her mother said.

The grass rustled in the wind. The insects chirped, chirped and chirped. White moths hung in clusters from the branches of a blooming crowberry. This tree has flowers, of course, inconspicuous, greenish and small, but they smell in such a way that people want to try them. Especially at night.

And among this splendor she crept - Dorana. Stumbling over fragments of branches hiding in the grass, which have been promised to my mother for years by my father and brothers. Feeling awkward and redundant.

It also seemed to her that no one was waiting for her in the garden, that she