CHAPTER 19
Taking Kaspian’s hand to hear the whispers of his blood had been painfully awkward, but at least they were on their way once more, having gathered their things and their horses from the abandoned farm. But the Mouth of Weles, farther and farther behind them, still lingered in her mind.
She had stowed the button in her pocket, but its wrongness burned through the fabric of her dress and the kalesony against her skin. Mokosza had bid the raven deliver it to her; she’d have to unravel its mystery.
Mamusia’s dreams, the burnt cottage, the Mouth of Weles, the blackmark moving up her arm—it misted her mind like a heavy fog, its gray so thick she could see no answers. The more she thought of it all, the more distant the bies and healing the blackmark became, and she had to fight all
