Frieda Wrenwood

In a crooked cottage on the edge of Wrenwood Meadow, Frida Wrenwood kept watch over her world. Her baby boy cooed softly in his cradle, his tiny fingers curling in sleep, while a speckled baby goat, her latest mischievous companion, nibbled on a worn corner of the rug. Fierce and sharp-eyed, Frida guarded her little haven with the strength of a thousand storms. No stray wind, no shadowy figure dared come near her precious ones without facing her unyielding spirit—protective, quick as fire, and bound to her loved ones like the roots of an ancient tree.