She glided with Rose in her arms down the staircase, Anya’s feet never touching the wood, and passed the old lady sleeping on the couch. Anya stopped and squatted, stabilizing her center of gravity, and tilted her head at the old lady.
Rose noticed her grandmother and squawked in short bursts—between gasping for air from sobbing and Anya’s decayed hand covering Rose’s mouth and nostrils.
“This old hag must be Grandma,” Anya whispered. “Maybe she’ll help you remember where the book is, as I slice off her toes, one by one.”
Rose shook her head and flailed in Anya’s arms, trying to find a weakness in the witch’s grasp.
“Nah. Let’s let Granny sleep. This is between you and me,” Anya said and carried Rose out the back door and into the side yard.
Darkness and the stillness of night shroude
