The pebbles of the underground stream bed dug into the soles of her feet, and the chill of the shallow water numbed her toes. The rough surface of the ceiling sloped down, scraping her back, forcing her to bend, to crouch, to curl enough that she caught her balance with her hands in the wet. The light faded swiftly. Had she gone far enough? She paused, eyes adjusting. The glimmering ripples of the spring's source cast dim flickers against the rocks pressing her down. J.M. Ney-Grimm lives with her husband and children in Virginia, just east of the Blue Ridge Mountains.She's learning about permaculture gardening and debunking popular myths about food. The rest of the time she reads Robin McKinley, Diana Wynne Jones, and Lois McMaster Bujold, plays boardgames like rears her twins, and writes stories set in her troll-infested North-lands.