parents had dreamed, had believed they’d
created a child to break the curse on the
Ironteeth and unite their peoples.
A child not of war, but of peace.
But those were foreign words on her
tongue. Love. Peace.
Manon ran a gloved finger over the scrap
of red fabric binding the end of her braid. A
shred from her half sister’s cloak. Rhiannon.
Named for the last Witch-Queen. Whose face
Manon somehow bore. Manon said, “I’ll ask
the Crochans not to shoot, I suppose.”
Asterin’s mouth twitched toward a smile.
“I meant about who you are.”
She’d rarely balked from anything. Rarely
feared anything. But saying the words, those
words ... “I don’t know,” Manon admitted.
“We’ll see if we get that far.”
The White Demon. That’s what the
Crochans called her. She was at the top of
lily
(lily)
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