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broom. Beyond the witch’s billowing red
cloak, gold-bound twigs shimmered.
High ranking, then, to have such fine
bindings. Most Crochans used simpler metals,
the poorest just twine.
“What interesting replacements for your
ironwood brooms,” the Crochan said. The
others were as stone-faced as the Thirteen.
The witch glanced toward where Dorian sat
atop Vesta’s mount, likely monitoring all with
that clear-eyed cunning. “And interesting
company you now keep.” The witch’s mouth
curled slightly. “Unless things have become
so sorry for your ilk, Blackbeak, that you have
to resort to sharing.”
A snarl rumbled from Asterin.
But the witch had identified her—or at
least what Clan they hailed from. The Crochan
sniffed at the spider-shifter. Her eyes
shuttered. “Interesting company indeed.”