It was a quarter past midnight, four weeks before Midwinter’s End Eve, and a thirteen-year-old boy was dangling precariously from a disintegrating homemade rope hanging from outside the darkest tower of Gormincrag, the Rehabilitation Centre for the Re-Education of Dark Magic and Wicked Wizards.
(That, by the way, is a long and fancy name for a jail, and not just any old jail, the most secure and impregnable jail in the wildwoods.)
They mayor was a master at the phony, toothy grin, but it slid off his face when he spotted Sabrina and Daphne.
“What are they doing here?” he moaned.
“They found the body,” the sheriff explained.
“The sisters Grimm found the body and no one told me?” Charming said.
“You told us not to talk,” Mr. Seven said defensively.