I had barely gotten a grip on the chaos when my mother—the fire-blooded woman who gave birth to both Álvaro and me, stepped forward, her eyes unwavering as a winter wolf.
"Wait," she called, voice hushing Rosa's hysterics. "María José, what did you mean by a cottage in the woods?"
Every head turned. Even Rosa shut up for a second, which was, frankly, more magical than any damn witchcraft she was claiming María José might've done.
María José, so small and calm, looked up at my mother without flinching. "I meant what I said, señora. There's a cottage. If everyone is willing, I'll lead you there right now. Everything you need is in that place."
She said it like she was offering directions to a bakery. Like we weren't on the verge of a full-pack civil war. I swear I heard Rosa inhale to object again, but my father was quicker.
"Then lead us," he said, standing from his throne chair. "Now."
