A Fine Scottish Spell (The Magical Matchmakers of Seven Cairns #2)

“N othing? No sign of her at all?” Mairwen searched each of their downcast faces, looking up and down the line of Weavers, all of them Masters of their particular divinity. Even the Dark Weavers, those in charge of curses, conflict, nightmares, emptiness, and hate, refused to look her in the eye.

“It is as though she never existed.” Taskill, Master of the Curse Weavers’ ragged, weary appearance gave testament to his efforts in the search for Emily.

“I have never seen anything like this in all my eons.” He splayed his hands across the glowing map of worlds and realities that floated at eye level in the center of the meeting hall, and slowly rotated it, occasionally enlarging regions as it turned.

“We have never lost a mortal before. Never!”