The candles were smoking, but the smoke didn’t seem to follow the wind. It just drifted straight up, twisting and writhing and braiding itself. As the gems pulsed, air began being expelled out of the circle while the smoke from each candle gathered above the blunderbuss, growing thick far too quickly. Amanita’s horn stopped glowing and her eyes flew open as she panted. And the smoke coalesced into the vaguely hazy, slightly glowing shape of Catskill.