"Something's wrong with me," Magnolia whispered, staring into the fogged mirror above the basin.
She traced her fingertips beneath her rib cage. The mark had appeared only hours ago. A thin, raised scar, arcing like a crescent moon carved into her flesh. It pulsed beneath her touch, not painfully, but with an awareness. As if it responded to her thoughts. Her breath caught.
The room behind her reflected faintly in the mirror: the carved stone walls of the keep, the tall flickering sconces. Her nightdress clung to her thighs as she stepped back and sat on the edge of the bed, the fabric whispering against her skin. Her palms shook.
Celeste entered without knocking. "You called me."
Magnolia didn't turn to her. She simply raised the hem of her dress and said, "Look."
The older witch stepped forward. Her movements were measured, graceful even in urgency. She crouched and placed her palm just above the mark. Her pupils dilated. "This is not natural."
