[This post is from Artorius Mackenzie’s point of view.]
A shiver crept through him as he stepped out of the cottage, pulling the door closed behind him. Tory could smell rain on the wind and as she shoved his hands into his pockets and started away, toward the village’s walls, hoping that with a little air and a little space he’d be able to process everything he’d just learned.
There was part of him that wondered how much of this his mother had known, or at least suspected—and for how long.
That was almost enough to send a fresh shiver down his back.
“Prophecies,” he muttered to himself, then shook his head. “Because we don’t already have enough to deal with around here, right?”
Because I don’t have enough that I’m trying to sort out for myself.
No one stopped him as he headed through the gates and down across old, broken concrete and grass, wandering a pathway his feet knew without his thinking about it. He’d forgotten his fishing gear, but that didn’t matter. He wasn’t going fishing today.
