Twenty-seven years. That was the sentence deemed appropriate for crimes spanning centuries, a testament to both the magical judiciary’s desire for reform and the sheer complexity of her case. The parole hearing was a small, stark room. On one side sat the parole board, their faces a mixture of caution and morbid curiosity. On the other sat Agnetha, dressed in a simple grey shift, her hands folded neatly. She looked every one of her eighty-odd years, her white hair thin, her posture ...