“My lady, it is time,” I told Isolde. We walked to the garden cottage with candles on this eve of St. John’s Day and lit the yarrow we had gathered, placing it in a small pit I had made.
“St. John, guide us to the Light, to release us from what binds us, so we can turn to Him, and find in our faith a new hold. Amen.”
The scent of burnt yarrow drifted on the summer breeze.