A hateful, wasted scrap of existence. That’s what her grandmother was. She had never realized how much shorter the Matron stood. How narrow her shoulders were, or how the years of rage and hate had withered her. Manon’s smile grew. And she could have sworn she felt two people standing at her shoulder. She knew no one would be there if she looked. Knew no one else could see them, sense them, standing with her. Standing with their daughter against the witch who had destroyed them.
