I flung a panicked look to the stage, where Emmy stood with her chair overturned behind her, her hands spread wide as she prepared to mount some magical counterattack. The wreath on her hair glowed a bright, unearthly blue, which surged down her arms and danced around her hands in blinding sparks before flowing toward the blight in sapphire waves. Even her wide, furious eyes had a cobalt tint to them, pulsing to some inner rhythm that likely attuned to Thistle Grove itself.
