The night had seemed interminable, a heavy shroud imprisoning and suffocating her, trapping her in fear and worry and guilt. Tir should have been back by now. But she couldn’t wait or go in search of him or even leave a message, for fear of leaving a trail. The bread and cheese they’d set aside for breakfast remained untouched, her stomach too tense, her nerves strung too tight to eat. The vision image of Levi’s death assaulted her. Failure and guilt tried to crush her. Araña turned away from them. She knew what she had to do, and she would do it. Finding the house belonging to the Wainwright witches was easy. The first person she approached for directions provided them. The house was in the center of the area set aside for the gifted. Dark stones surrounded dozens of tiny windows. Dew caught on elaborate glyphs carved into door and window frames. A short, wrought iron fence marked a boundary and warned with more sigils that the area was protected by magic.
