“Elm, what—” “Shut up.” He searched my cousin’s face. “Miss Hawthorn,” he said, his voice unusually soft. “Ione.” She did not respond, did not move his hand away, did not blink, her eyes just as unfocused as before. Something was wrong. I gripped the table. “What’s going on?” “Look at her eyes,” Elm murmured. “Someone’s used a Scythe on her.”
His brother probably
