The circle around Rowan’s feet was nothing but ash now. The Guthrie witches scurried around the edges of the sitting room like rats forced into daylight, murmuring to each other in sharp, clipped words Rowan barely heard over the thunder of her own pulse.
She sat on the floor where she’d fallen when the Dreaming spat her out, her palms raw from scraping the runes that had burned under her touch. Her breathing was ragged, her throat raw from the scream she hadn’t swallowed fast enough. Her mother hovered a few feet away, hands clasped tight in front of her as if she could wring the worry out of her bones.
Lucien stood behind Rowan’s shoulder, silent and watchful. He hadn’t let go of her since the Path slammed shut. His thumb pressed steady against the inside of her wrist, counting her pul
