However, something was wrong. The wrongness struck even before the mind could place it. An aesthetic error in a portrait. A note in a hymn that had been scraped thin and stretched to fit the line.
Her sister had lost the porcelain, invulnerable skin of the Angels. This confirms how The Witch herself regained it. Instead, it was replaced with something that seemed to mimic life. The surface caught light, but not in the right way. It was too eager, too hungry, as if reflecting were a job rather than a nature. Why did that happen? How does she even have something like that? An imitation of life isn't something that can be naturally made. It needs the power of something that refuses to die no matter what. The power of an Usurper themselves. But here, there were two of them.
