Behind the Hag’s house stood a perfectly symmetrical wood hut, almost half the size of the Hag’s house. It was already steaming heavily from every possible opening—a single window, fogged up completely, a chimney too long for such a small house, and even a crack or two in the wall. It smelled of roasted oak leaves—a musty, inviting smell that caused the rocks in Khaidu’s shoulder muscles to soften into butter.
“Are you sure?” she asked the Hag. “I mean, why must I wash if I’m going to the Realm of the Dead. Seems a little . . . I don’t know . . . excessive?”
The Hag harrumphed. “And you’d be the expert, I suppose.”
Khaidu submitted, patting Aglaia gently on the head. The wolf lumbered toward the door.
“Leave all your clothes at the door,” commanded the Hag.
“Why? What are you going to
