“Devour the flesh, the root of the other; breath to breath, exchange your charter…” The beannighe found the exact center of the circle, kneeling to the floor. With her back to him, Saffron stared as, carved into her back, there were wounds older than he was. Perhaps older than even Baba Yaga. Impertinence. Impatience. Belligerence. But, above them, like a brand at the top of her spine, there was a circle with two lines drawn horizontally through the middle. Saffron knew that mark—it was one of the feda letters he’d memorized. Was that her mark of the oath, the one Elluin meant to find in the
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