The morning light did nothing to warm Greyhollow.
Lucian stood at the window of the parish hall, watching the villagers move through their routines like sleepwalkers. They carried water from the well—the well that the curse hadn't reached yet—and spoke in whispers, their eyes darting toward the forest every few steps. Fear lived in them now. Fear of the dark. Fear of each other. Fear of the old woman beneath the roots.
Cora sat at the table, cleaning her sword with a cloth that had once been white. "How long are we going to wait?"
"Until we have answers."
"And if the answers don't come?"
Lucian didn't turn. "They'll come."
Greer had given them the use of the parish hall for as long as they needed. The fire was lit now, crackling in the hearth, but the warmth didn't reach the corners of the room. It was as if the curse had left a chill that no fire could chase away.
