She never wore her hair up, always let those wild, glorious curls run rampant, so I’d never seen it, the tattoo that stained the bone behind her ear. It might as well have been a brand marking her for judgment. For there, sketched in ink thinner than spider silk, a compass pointed east. And on its face, staring back at me with lifeless eyes, was a glawackus. The shock had barreled through me, and I’d knocked the teacup over in the process. My soul shattered before the ceramic did. Her face had flushed with embarrassment, and she’d glanced at Amity, the Fates affording me just enough time to
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