As Talia glided back through silent canals, Esme said little, rocked by this new, unsettling information. At least she had a lead now—thanks to Celia. The lord mayor had been helpful, but blinkered when it came to her situation, whereas the chief enchantress, despite her cold demeanour and forbidding appearance, had shown some empathy for her predicament.
That night, as exhaustion overtook her, Esme remembered something. A name. She took up her mother’s notebook and read over the final entry.
Returning to Esperance tomorrow, when the tide is right. Slept badly—dreamt of Nathan.
