The following chapter includes content that is not appropriate for readers below 19 years old. Read with caution.
The wards sang.
Marcus stood at the edge of the tree line with one hand in his pocket and let the sound wash over him. It was thin and high, like a plucked string drawn tight across the whole field. Every few seconds it shivered, when the earth beneath the grass turned over in its sleep. Someone had woven those wards carefully, with old knowledge and fresher fear, and he admired the work the way a man admires a lock he intends to open.
It was charming, to say the least. Truly. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to keep him out.
The morning was cold, and the mist lay in the hollows like spilled milk. His white shirt was crisp, the cuffs turned back twice, and not one fleck of river water marked it. He had changed before he came. A man should look his best when he visits his wife.
