Chapter 7

The storm had scarred the forest. A great oak stood split by lightning, its bark blackened, smoke still faint in its hollow. Sylvia might have passed it by, but Lavinia stopped dead.

She stepped forward like a pilgrim, cloak trailing mud, and pressed her palm to the charred wood. Her lips moved, low and steady, forming syllables Sylvia had never heard before. The sounds curled heavy in the air, older than language, older than the forest itself.

When Lavinia finished, she drew a small object from her cloak—a feather bound in twine, stained dark. She wedged it into a crack of the ruined trunk, her touch careful, almost reverent.

Sylvia shivered. “What… what was that?”

Lavinia turned, eyes unreadable, rain-slick hair clinging to her cheek.

“None of your concern,” she said. But her voice was quieter than her words deserved, as though she hadn’t quite shaken the ritual from her tongue.