Wordlessly, Manon handed Bronwen her sword, nodding in thanks.
Then she removed the crown of stars and extended it toward Glennis.
“This belongs to you,” she said, her voice low.
The Crochans murmured, shifting.
Glennis took the crown, and the stars dimmed. A small smile graced
the crone’s face. “No,” she said, “it does not.”
Manon didn’t move as Glennis lifted the crown and set it again on
Manon’s head.
Then the ancient witch knelt in the snow. “What was stolen has been
restored; what was lost has come home again. I hail thee, Manon
Crochan, Queen of Witches.”
Manon stood fast against the tremor that threatened to buckle her legs.
Stood fast as the other Crochans, Bronwen with them, dropped to a
knee. Dorian, standing amongst them, smiled, brighter and freer than
she’d ever seen.
And then the Thirteen knelt, two fingers going to their brows as they
bowed their heads, fierce pride lighting their faces.
“Queen of Witches,” Crochan and Blackbeak declared as one voice.
As one people.