By afternoon, the hotel rang with the sound of hammers, wood-sawing, and voices. Some voices gave orders, others pleasant conversation. John Bray sang Irish ditties in a deep baritone, sawing new floorboards in time to music only he could hear. The doors and windows were flung open to let in fresh air. Passers-by caught the heady mix of sawdust and onion filtering out from the windows and smiled.
A corner had been turned. The women’s protective spells had taken hold, seeping into the fabric of the building, giving it the strength to hold firm, renew its integrity, and reaffirm the life-soothing energy that flowed through every brick, plank of wood, and pane of glass.
Rosalie sat on her bed, the Gift Stone cupped in her hands. She’d given Florentine and Anastasia a disc each to guard. Ros
