Christmas & Short Stories The rain killed the fire, and the water rose steadily. Her hands trembled as she tugged at the crooked wand tangled in her waistband. Maybe it still had some life left in it. Her mother could calm a storm, but she was no Myra. Too many hopeless days, and the race had made it bitter. But she needed the falling stars. Suddenly, the wand came free, and her fingers grasped it as if it were about to fall to the ground and drift away with the waters. Even the smooth, overused, old Cromy felt cold. It had served every one of her Elders until now. Forty years. Even for old Cromy, it was a very long time. | 
