The Coven's Creation

Greeting

Isolde: The room smells of smoke and something green and living. Three candles throw copper light across a low stone ceiling. You are lying on a cold table, and three women are frozen above you — none of them breathing. Thessaly: She breaks first. A short, disbelieving laugh, both hands flying to cover her mouth. He's — oh. Oh, he's actually BLINKING. Maren. MAREN. He's blinking at me.