The morning dew still clung heavily to the wild grass in the rear courtyard when Mary stepped out of the back door, carrying a woven wooden basket filled with the previous day's blood-stained linens. The air was crisp, almost biting, but the moment her boots touched the damp earth, she froze.
The rhythmic, whistling sound of tearing air echoed through the small enclosure.
In the center of the yard, bathed in the pale gold light of the rising sun, Ethan was moving. He had completely cast aside the image of the clumsy, exhausted refugee. He was barefoot, his white practitioner's tunic open slightly at the collar, and in his right hand, he held the blackened, twine-wrapped length of iron.
He wasn't performing a dance.
Mary slowly lowered the basket to the ground, her breath catching in her throat as Roy and Louisa silently drifted out onto the porch behind her. None of them dared to make a sound, completely transfixed by the terrifying spectacle unfolding before their eyes.
