Dreams were unreliable portents, often like drunk, dancing clowns: more interested in getting a rise out of the audience than saying anything of substance.

Sanne lived in a one-room house, in the small town of Marigold, USA, tutoring kids, and running occasional wildcrafting classes for eager wealthy suburbanites who were afraid they’d die if they ate the wrong mushroom. It wasn’t much, but it covered the basics, and gave her time to do her real work. Marla knew about Sanne’s struggle with Jerry, but only the form, not the deeper substance. As far as Marla was concerned, Sanne and Jerry had fought about some sort of religion, and Marla was an atheist. Sanne had lived in Marigold for many years. It was a small town and she knew nearly everyone. Certainly anyone who dabbled in the crafting of spells, whether they knew it or not.
There was no one in Marigold who could cast that sort of enchantment.

I had to give up mid way through. The book felt like it was written as a writing challenge and then double-spaced to reach 130 pages. 130 pages of nothing to be honest. I counted on my fingers until I gave up how many times the main character’s name was given, how many times she was knitting a scarf and how many times she mentions kids or tutoring.

Way boring.