News of Elijah and Camille’s son spread of course, and as celebrations were planned, over in the shared patch of land that sat in the mouth of Orchid Forest, misery brewed.
Thick like a stew in a witch’s caldron, the cold air was taught with friction.
Normani looked at her parent’s eating dinner and not talking. That was all they could muster these days. Not looking at each other, not talking, equaled no fighting. And it was supposed to be a relief for their young teen daughter to not hear them fighting.
But the icy silence that was punctuated in the air felt worse somehow.
All three, on schedule with the ghostly hauntings, held up their bowls as Sir. James floated through the table going on and on about the Valijs war. The tired monologue sounded like a death march, and Normani wa
