“Prascovia sent me eggs,” Lydia announced with the solemnity of a mafia don who had just received a dead fish.
I peeked under the cloth. Two baking-powder-white eggs rested on a layer of straw—Prascovia’s favorites for spells. The old witch should know better than bestow pearls of her craft to a neighbor. My hour of quiet had expired.
SOUL OF THE UNBORN ON AMAZON
SOUL OF THE UNBORN: Can you call yourself human if supernatural forces control your every breath, every emotion, every desire?