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It was on the Yellowlegs Matron, hunched
and hateful between them. On the crown of
stars atop the crone’s thinned white hair.
Glennis’s sword shook slightly. And just as
Manon realized what the Matron had worn
here, Bronwen appeared at Glennis’s side and
breathed, “Rhiannon’s crown.”
Worn by the Yellowlegs Matron to mock
these witches. To spit on them.
A dull roaring began in Manon’s ears.
“What company you keep these days,
granddaughter,” said Manon’s grandmother,
her silver-streaked dark hair braided back
from her face.
A sign enough of their intentions, if her
grandmother’s hair was in that plait.
Battle. Annihilation.
The weight of the three High Witches’
attention pressed upon her. The Crochans
gathered behind her shifted as they waited for