The Sentinels ghost on the shore

She felt a swelling of power within the forest as Deirdre lifted her own voice to join, and she felt the trees call out to her blood and her spirit; they welcomed her, if their inhabitants would not, and that was all the approval that mattered to the young witch. The wolves of Donnelaith could try to send her away, but they would not succeed. They could not deny her blood, nor her belonging. She was no longer the wraith of a child that had left them.

But for those of her blood, the dark witch's memories of the forest's inhabitants were shades and impressions. They had always seemed other to her, foreign, as if they were invading the Mayfairs' private and sacred space— a feeling that had come more pronounced as she grew older and as her father fell ill. She knew the face before her, if not the woman's name or standing, and Emaleth's song faded.

"I have come home," she agreed. It was not a question, for she would not beg to return to their ranks. No one deserved the privilege more than she and Deirdre. "I hope all is well." Emaleth knew it was not, for how could it ever be without her father to lead them, but it seemed the polite thing to say.