A witch’s promise was one bound in the thread of fate, her word stronger than any blade. It was not long after the hushed twilight exchange that Morigana had sent the lovers to bed, insisting they use one of her spare rooms. It was a comfortable room, warmer in palette then the witch’s personal chamber had been. It had been more hospitable to mortal needs and wants, as well.

Marion had mustered their remaining energy to remove their boots and fall back into the quilts, followed by ...