In the margins of that book, written in faded ink, had been warnings: malevolent spirits often used glamour to infiltrate homes, disguising themselves as trusted faces before unleashing ruin upon the unsuspecting.
Knowing all she did, Circe should have been afraid. But when she searched within herself, past the caution she always felt around Dena, all she found was surprise and an insistent curiosity. She wanted to know more about this being. About her aunt. Perhaps understanding Dena would bring her closer to understanding her own situation. And if not that, then at least she might glean some fragment of who her mother had truly been before marrying her father and burying pieces of herself beneath secrecy.
For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though she were measuring Circe's worth, weighing whether she deserved the truth.
"That's right," Dena said at last, her voice calm. "I have a form that differs from the one you are seeing."
The confirmation only deepened Circe's curiosity.
