The ancient book sat on the table. A single flame from a white beeswax candle shed precious light over the faded script. Crumbles of discarded herbs lay scattered around the pentagram as spell after spell had been cast yet again to unlock the mystery of the legend.<br/><br/>Fire would send plumes of white smoke into the night so it had been banked as the sun set. Spring was slow coming and the damp in the stone basement never was far away from her bones. Even the patched quilt that covered her rough woolen work day clothes did little to dispel the shiver that was her perpetual companion. She was a small but well-formed woman, healthy in her youth but still the cold was deep.<br/><br/>Lydia Childs poured over the yellowed parchment again, looking for the key to unlock the shadows that were veiled in the story. Her hair, black as a raven’s wing hung down her back in curls to her waist. Her skin was nearly was white as new fallen snow, except for the rush of blood in her cheeks, she would pass for one of the ruling class. Her deep amber eyes were thoughtful and kind as she read the familiar words.<br/><em><strong><br/>“When a day is within a night and they that sleep awake, <br/>He will come and together they will partake”</strong></em><br/><br/>Lydia frowned yet again. Granny had died this past winter without a word as to what this meant. The old witch, as she had trained her granddaughter in the craft, had always insisted that her destiny was here. She would point with her gnarled old finger at the page and then challenge her with ,<br/><br/>“The first test will be completed when you find him.”<br/><br/>“Find who?” Lydia would demand. This conversation had become like a ritual for which there was no reasoning.<br/><br/>“He who will allow you to partake.”<br/><br/>“Partake of what?” she would asked , frowning as she scanned the page, yet again.<br/><br/>“When is a day within a night?” Lydia puzzled, as she paced the floor.<br/><br/>“You must find the spell to unlock the mystery.” Granny had said, even as the deep death sleep overtook her.  “You must not fail.”<br/><br/>Lydia knew to fail was to fall prey to those in power and authority. Her witchcraft must not fall to the undead who slept during the day, searched for prey by night and never died a true death. Her witchcraft, in their hands, would be a lethal combination. She must preserve a semblance of a balance of power. She and a few others like her, outcasts, living beings who breathed and loved with hearts that bled, were all that stood between the nobles and sanity. Daily, there were less people to protect and what would happen when the balance of power shifted?<br/>