Ursula had been a wild and charismatic character. She had been Circe’s sisters’ dearest friend and like an aunt to Circe—a great witch who had brought Circe bobbles and had told her stories of the sea. This creature, the thing she’d become, wasn’t the Ursula Circe loved. Ursula had become someone else, someone consumed by grief, anger, and the desire for power. A woman who had been driven to the depths of despair by a brother who loathed her. Circe remembered going to Ursula that day; she remembered thinking someone else—no, something else—was looking at her from behind Ursula’s eyes. It was
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