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Winter glanced up at the siren, frowning at her now. Winter looked down as Isidor searched for the last page with writing on it, the rest of the journal blank. Winter felt another stab of grief. It would join the Siblin archives in Minsk, the Library of the Siblin Dead, containing the journals of all Siblin who had gone before, going back a thousand years. The writing was spidery, faint.
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The wound in my side has festered. I am fevered. I slipped on the slope coming back into the valley and fell on a branch with a sharp limb. It was just a stupid accident, carelessness, but it punctured my gut.
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The siren had been telling the truth about how Maren had died.
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Soule has begged me to take The Wandering Eye and find a healer, but I know it’s too late. I can hear her crying at night
