Harvey was about to empty his left hand of dirt when his dad said: “Let me have that,” and opened his hand.
“Really?” said Harvey.
“I’ve heard a little good magic’s always useful,” came his father’s reply. “Isn’t that right?”
Harvey smiled, and poured a fistful of earth into his father’s palm.
“Always,” he said.
The days that followed were unlike any Harvey had ever known. Though there was no more talk of Hood, or of the House, or of the green hill upon which it had once stood, the subject was a part of every look and laugh that passed between him and his parents.
He knew they had only the vaguest sense of what had happened to them, but they were all three agreed on one thing: that it was fine to be together again.
Time would be precious from now on. It would tick by, of course, as it always had, but Harvey was determined he wouldn’t waste it with sighs and complaints. He’d fill every moment with the seasons he’d found in his heart: hopes like birds on a spring branch; happiness like a warm summer sun; magic like the rising mists of autumn. And best of all, love; love enough for a thousand Christmases.
