“He hunches, not animal, not man, but something between. He stands in the room he built for the Spirit of the Wood, perched upon a tall, dark stone.” Emory’s face twisted, his features contorted in fear. “He whispers something.” “What does he say?” I asked, my heart in my throat. Emory’s hand shook. When he spoke, his voice was strange—slippery. “There once was a girl,” he said, “clever and good, who tarried in shadow in the depths of the wood. There also was a King, a shepherd by his crook, who reigned over magic and wrote the old book. The two were together, so the two were the same…” He did
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