“Is this wood enchanted, Darren?” Miriam asked.
“No. It’s just a wood.”
“What about that huge oak?”
“No. It’s just an old tree,” he replied.
“Is that pretty little well over there enchanted?”
“No, but I always found that the water from it was particularly nice.”
“That fairy ring must be the place,” Miriam said pointing to the circle of red-capped mushrooms.
“Not that I’m aware of,” he replied.
“Darren Weaver, I’m starting to think that you brought me out here on false pretenses. You said you were going to show me an enchanted place.”
“And I will,” he assured her. “It won’t be much farther now.”
At last they came to a small clearing which held a rather unremarkable moss-banked pond.
“We’re here,” he announced.
“Here?” she asked, scrunching her nose. “It doesn’t look enchanted to me.”
“Look in the pool,” he instructed.
“All I can see is my reflection,” she said.
“And what could be more enchanting than that?” he said handing her a daisy.