"You are connected," the Blacksmith whispers, her hands floating over Waverly's smudged knuckles. "You are as one. The Keeper of the Bones, and the Stone Witch's Son."

Something goes strange with the last words: suddenly, her voice is too low, too echoing, layered as though several dozen other voices are speaking along with her. Or through her. The Blacksmith gasps and pulls her hands away as though she'd been burned. Waverly, not understanding but acting purely on reflex, does the same, then looks towards the woman, concerned.

What she sees doesn't give her much comfort. The Blacksmith's face is drawn; her hands are up as if to protect herself. "What have I done?" she whispers, horrified.

No. Not horrified. Terrified.