Page 50 of The Girl in the Forest

I stood in mute awe while every faille sense I had shuddered. Power swirled through the air. The low hum sank to my very bones, and I curled my fingers around the bow, forcing calm, willing myself not to react.

The witches sat back-to-back, queens on golden thrones. One wore a white gown. The other black. The hems draped to conceal their feet. Veils matching the gowns flowed over their heads, covering the eyes, but enhancing the visible flawless noses, cheekbones, mouths.

They looked like marble statues; only a master’s hand could have carved such perfection.

My heart thudded with the thought that no beauty such as this could be evil.

No magic could be wicked when it floated golden thrones in mid-air, three feet above a jagged vent.

Fumes drifted from the vent, glowing like molten rubies, weaving like braided ribbons through the air—no fumes that color could be disturbing. No scent that sweet could be drugging.

My fingers flexed around the bow while I wondered why I still held it. There was no fear here, no test. What wrapped around me was comfort. A place where I could linger. Stare at the beauty.

And yet, I was afraid to move or draw attention to myself. Part of me recognized the sensation—like standing on the cliff edge, refusing to look down into my dark faille abyss where the monster lived. Not let it notice me.

Now I was afraid to let these witches notice me.

It didn’t matter, because both women turned their heads in my direction. The precision was uncanny. Veils covering their faces swayed, fluttered, but their bodies remained rigid and unmoving.

“Come closer,” the witches said in unison. “We cannot see you.”

The innocence of young girls echoed in their voices while I faced two adult women, and I realized a terrible truth lived in that purity. I’d trespassed here, the way I’d trespassed in Grayson’s mind.

Chills pebbled my skin. My breathing rasped.

I rubbed my thumb against the ridged grip of the bow. Rubbed again.

“She hesitates,” the witch to my left said, while the one on the right argued, “No, sister. She hides.”

“She doesn’t believe.”

“She does, but fears what she believes.”

“Are you afraid?” The witch who asked wore black. Her head was still turned toward me, and her red lips twitched in a tight smile. Once, twice… three perfect movements.

“She is afraid,” her sister answered, mirroring every action, every disturbing flick of the mouth.

Anxiety prickled, energy seeking an outlet. I skimmed my gaze over the carved pillars bracketing the golden thrones, black beside white, white beside black. Fumes puffed from the vent with the clock-work regularity of a bellows, and everything held the same perfection as Aine’s magic… except for the malice I sensed rotting beneath the surface.

I narrowed my eyes and studied the ebony stand supporting a black scrying bowl. Nearby, water trickled from a crack in the rocky wall, falling into a white marble basin with a melody that didn’t change.

Was this nothing more than the magic in Aine’s wrinkle? Recreated with the threat of something darker?

I jerked my head around to face them. Grayson’s advice had been straightforward: go in, ask, walk out, and I said, “I came to ask a question.”

“We know,” the witch in black answered, her veiled face still toward me.

“It is the wrong question,” the one in white added.

“We cannot help you…”

“If you cannot ask the right question.”

When one witch spoke, the other carried on without pause, and in a normal world, the eerie mimicry should have alerted me.

But when I looked down… my fingers relaxed until the bow dropped. I didn’t question it; didn’t wonder why.

I shrugged the quiver from my shoulder and listened to the soft thud of the weight against the sand.

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