Rains come. They flood Shannon's soul. The world turns, as it would. She is three times seven years old, and that is when the Devil drags his tithe down to the depths.
That is, unless she takes him to the wishing well and braves lion, adder, and burning brand to win her prince from his sorcerous cage. Love grows complicated, when the tall dark dangerous magician is your destiny, and your Prince Charming is a mighty regent over Hell, not the lord of some ivy-choked Carterhaugh.
Shannon's father lays dead in the ground, pale and rigid as a crypt. This Bethlehem's steel has turned to rust long ago. The foundry towers over her like a behemoth in the distance. She sits in the shadow of her family mausoleum in Nisky Hill Cemetery, her crimson umbrella fending off the rain. It pours from the stone eaves like tears from angels' eyes.
