Asterin turned toward her in silent urging. Yet Manon’s lips didn’t move. The dark-haired one kept her brown eyes fixed on Manon. Over one shoulder, a polished wood staff gleamed. Not a staff—a broom. Beyond the witch’s billowing red cloak, gold-bound twigs shimmered. High ranking, then, to have such fine bindings. Most Crochans used simpler metals, the poorest just twine. “What interesting replacements for your ironwood brooms,” the Crochan said. The others were as stone-faced as the Thirteen. The witch glanced toward where Dorian sat atop Vesta’s mount, likely monitoring all with that
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