For several minutes, Jocelynn knelt on the cold stone floor of the Chapel of the Rising Sun. Her hands balled up into fists, clutching at the heavy wool fabric of her dark, mourning dress, and tears streamed down her face.
Everything had been her fault.
Owain killed Ashlynn because of her.
Eleanor died protecting her from Percivius.
And for what?
"You know," Jocelynn said as the storm of self-loathing and bitter regret raging within her chest receded. "I almost wish that you really were a witch," she said as she pushed herself up from the stone floor. The distance between her and the altar wasn't that great, no more than a few steps, but with Ashlynn's 'last meal' sitting on it, it felt both incredibly far away and like it towered over her, even though it was only a little more than waist high.
