Wednesday wracked his brains for answers that would allow them to get to the castle on time while his great-gran rubbed her chin and cocked her head to the side thoughtfully. The feathers and rattles tied to the top of her staff rattled with her movements.
“Meena,” she said in a quavery voice, “the fates see a lot clearer when you attend to your task. Is someone mortally wounded?”
His mother sighed, but gave their Great Ember a look of loving exasperation. Great-Gran had drafted her to be her eyes, and wasn’t shy about pulling age or rank.
Wednesday’s mother led her over, carefully, and the child stopped squalling as he watched them approach. Wednesday didn’t blame him. His great-gran may be shorter than most, but she had a presence about her that reminded one of a mountain strong enough to make even the wildest wind think twice before shrieking anywhere near its peaks.