But a witch tried to kill me and Rook was snatched from his life and tied to a pole.
I decide Toto has a good point.
I go to the door and slide the lock closed.
TWENTY-ONE
Cleo
Despite the late hour, there is a buoyancy to Cleo’s steps as she follows the Yellow Brick Road away from Delphine’s castle.
It’s darker than dark outside, but the lampposts cast a halo of light over the road.
She doesn’t look back and the farther she gets, the better she feels.
She can go anywhere. Do anything.
She doesn’t know where she’s going. And she doesn’t know what she wants to do. But at least she has the choice now.
The road bends around a copse of eastern red oak and when Cleo comes around the other side, she’s at the foot of the snowdrop field.
Cleo stops.
She didn’t intend to return to the farmhouse, but unless she wanted to wander off the brick road, it was impossible to miss.
And yet…
A shiver rolls through her.
You are a murderer, a voice says in the back of her mind.
Guilt knots in her gut.
Should she feel remorse for opening her hand and showing Delphine the oil-slick feather of the winged monkey?
If she should, she doesn’t, and she’s not entirely sure what that says about her.
She follows the road, intending to continue on past the house, but something pulls her to a stop. She leaves the road, crossing over the field until the house is in front of her and the pile of ash is at her feet.
Cleo raises her foot and slams it down. Ash plumes in the air and when the breeze shifts, it carries Delphine away.
It’s almost sad seeing a woman with magic in her veins be reduced to something this irrelevant. Cleo was terrified of Delphine and now look at her.
Within minutes, whatever is left of the witch disappears on the wind, swirling behind the pitched roof of Dorothy’s house.
Cleo steps back, intending to return to the Yellow Brick Road, when a movement of shadow inside the house catches her attention.
Is it Dorothy? Is she still here?
Cleo is moving before she considers what else might be lingering in the house. She bursts in through the front door and two Enders yelp in surprise. The men are rummaging through the cupboards looking for things to steal.
“This isn’t your house.”
The words are out, hanging like the jagged glass in the windows. Her consonants are too harsh, herOs too long.
The men frown at one another. There’s the taller one with buzzed black hair and hazel eyes. And the shorter one with a thick red beard and ears that stick out like tree mushrooms.
Beard is holding a frying pan. Buzz is holding a bag of onions and a copper spoon.
