Читать книгу Red Clocks - Leni Zumas - Страница 18

The polar explorer liked to stand on the turf roof of the two-room cottage and think of her feet being precisely above the head of her mother, who was stirring or cutting or pounding; and how many inches of grass and soil lay between them; and how she was above, her mother below, reversing the order, flipping the world, with nobody able to tell her it couldn’t be flipped.

Then she would be called in to help boil the puffin.