Part V
I met a witch today on patrol. A Wayward. Mathilde, she called herself.
It was obvious that she’d been wandering the forest for too long. I warned her of the danger. Offered to take her back to Stonehaven, but she refused. Insisted she preferred the company of the trees—of wolves—regardless of the threat of the Hunt. Even so, I sat with her. Shared my food.
In return, Mathilde offered me a reading.
She was something of a Diviner, I learned.
Or she would have been, had she joined the Covens.
Her instrument appeared to be a string of teeth hanging from her belt.
I likely should have refused. Mother would flay me alive if she knew I accepted the magic of a Wayward.
But curiosity got the better of me, eager—as anyone might be—to know what lies ahead.
But Mathilde did not glimpse the future Mother—and even our own Diviners—portends. She did not see me as head of the coven. There was only darkness, she claimed. Pain. But she did gift me one glimmer of hope.
With one of her gnarled fingers, Mathilde drew the shape of a triangle on my palm. She said it was a promise. That if I would let it, those three crossed lines would guide me to the light.
—From the private writings of Rhea, Second to Cassandra, High Witch of Stonehaven