“You’re coming, aren’t you?” she asked. No terror tinged her voice; at the still, cooling center of things, serenity comes naturally. “Will you make yourself known to me, or shall you wait until I am inert, clay beneath your hands?” A faint wind sighed on the edge of hearing, bringing no sound of approach. A seeping chill spread further, settling things into orderly stillness as Yarrow composed herself to await her vanquisher.