Ryatt

My mother blinks, then blinks again, that milky, whirling magic clearing from her eyes. Eyes the color of emeralds lock on mine, then slowly graze toward Westfall.

Her skin goes pale.

“No,” she says, so softly we all almost miss it. “Where–” She backs away from Isaac and Westfall, shaking her head.

“Cressie,” Westfall says, his voice trembling with emotion. “It’s okay.”

Her eyes dart to his, and her face crumbles. “Adrian?”

I ...