Something was wrong. I gripped the table. “What’s going on?” “Look at her eyes,” Elm murmured. “Someone’s used a Scythe on her.” He reached into his pocket, his eyes never leaving Ione’s face. He tapped his Scythe three times, his voice gentle. “Tell me what you’ve done, Hawthorn.” She blinked. When she spoke, her voice sounded strangled. “Only what he bade me,” she said. I went cold. That’s when I realized that there were five of us seated at the table. Five of us. And six goblets.
Wa
