Ghosts of the Heart, Chapter 13.
They were smaller by far than the giants that ringed Stonehenge. Each stone was different, weathered, misshapen, oddly individual. Sophie walked slowly from one to the other, placing the palm of her hand on each, feeling their sun-warmed surfaces, pitted with age, rough against her skin. A few children played among them. One older couple walked arm in arm from one to another, just as she was doing. A younger couple had spread a blanket on the grass, and sat propped against one of the stones. These weren’t museum stones, she realized. These were still serving their old purpose, drawing people to them, making themselves available. Sophie picked a stone for herself and sank down onto the grass, leaning carefully back against its rough warmth.
