Crowbones

CHAPTER 56

Watersday, Novembros 3

His brain . . . blinked . . . and he wasn’t sure what he had seen, wasn’t sure what had been done. Except . . .

There was death. He had given the warning; the Reader was safe. But there was death.

He wasn’t sure what he had seen—the pattern shifted and re-formed, shifted and re-formed. But he knew the taste of it, the feel of it enough to give it a name.

Betrayal.