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the Matrons dismounted and did not raise
their hands in request for parley. No, they
only stalked closer to the hearth, to the
precious flame still burning. “Don’t engage,”
Manon warned him and the others, and strode
to meet them.
It was not the king’s battle, no matter what
power dwelled in his veins.
Glennis was already armed, an ancient
sword in her withered hands. The woman was
as old as the Yellowlegs Matron, yet she stood
tall, facing the three High Witches.
Cresseida Blueblood spoke first, her eyes
as cold as the iron-spiked crown digging into
her freckled brow. “It has been an age,
Glennis.”
But Glennis’s stare, Manon realized, was
not on the Blueblood Matron. Or even on
Manon’s own grandmother, her black robes
billowing as she sneered at Manon.