The fire became incandescent as Florentine watched her mother’s body sag. She could no longer look into the flame; the light was too bright and too hot. She turned her face and staggered, the crone’s rough grip holding her gone. The light flickered and went out, leaving Florentine with the ghost of the fire in her vision.
At her feet, Clement Benedict had crawled through the dissipating mist and past their guard. His hand, horribly burned, held onto the lip of the cup, pulling it out of the circle. He rolled away, paying no heed to the uncontrolled flames that leapt around him, finding wood and dust, and exploding into new fires that seethed across the walls.
Florentine turned to her mother, intent on saving her, but her mother was gone. In her place, a woman sat as if she’d fallen, her
