There were twenty of them in the street.
I counted through the window while Senna moved through her kitchen with the unhurried efficiency of a woman who had prepared for this specific emergency. She pulled things from shelves and drawers, small objects and sealed jars, with the calm of someone who had run the scenario in her head enough times that the real version was simply the rehearsal made physical.
Maren Doss stood at the center of the group in the street below, her gray coat gone and something darker underneath, a working garment, practical and worn in the way that tools are worn in. She was not here for diplomacy. She had not been here for diplomacy since she smiled at the window.
“Can she force the convergence from out there?” I asked Senna.
“Not without the soul anchors. She k
