“You won’t need that,” Ravyn said as I pocketed the crow’s foot. “You haven’t needed it for eleven years.” I stared at him. “But the mist—The Spirit of the Wood—” “Does not catch people like us,” he said. “But the book says—” “You and I already carry strange magic. We’re the very things the book warns against, Miss Spindle.” He smiled, gesturing away from the house into the garden. “We needn’t be afraid of a little salt in the air.”
