The cobbled streets of Willow Creek village were slick with the aftermath of a predawn drizzle, reflecting the bruised blue sky. Dallas moved like a shadow against the town, the memory of Ember's moonlight eyes and his own betrayal a fresh brand on his soul.
The encounter with the twins had left him feeling scraped raw, his mind still filled with the violent restoration of memories – both the recent horrors and the resurrected shame. He knew Hattie lived on the outskirts, past the blacksmith's and the baker's where the scent of yeast was already thick in the air. Her place, he recalled vaguely, had been an unassuming cottage with an overgrown garden, known locally for its potent remedies and rare herbs. A perfect disguise for a witch operating outside Lydia's sanctioned circle.
