As they approached Arreton Barns, Tip’s stomach curdled with unreasoning—no, make that entirely reasoning—dread. The low-roofed buildings, with their jolly signs painted in Ye Olde Englishe Spellynge, seemed even more sinister in the bright noonday sunshine than they had in the murky twilight of his nightmares. Hiding in plain sight, wasn’t that what they called it? He had a brief urge to run through the complex shouting “Run! Run while you still can!” to all the unsuspecting tourists who ambled sluggishly from shop to shop.
He jumped as Steve placed a hand on his arm. “Relax, Tip. We’re just going to talk to her, okay? No spells unless you say so.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Tip wondered why he’d never realized before just how creepy this place was. The Blacksmythe’s Forge displayed grue
