They were getting worse. Or maybe she was just remembering them now. Visions of horrid surgeries. Dreams of healing that would make whole the body and shatter the mind. Far worse than the dreams was the waking reality.
Ever since she had taken in the children and felt the Hag, the part of herself that was the Hag, the world had shifted. Faerie bled through the world, poisoning it. She'd see things. She'd glance over an herb in the grass of the yard. Flintheather, she'd know it was called. It was used to stop the poison of a manticore. The knowledge came from no where.
And she knew just as firmly that it didn't exist. It wouldn't be there when she looked again. It would just be a dandelion.
She'd hear things. The distant screams of a a babe whose heart was torn out and replaced with that of a pig. She could feel the sow's blood on her hands even though they were clean.
She could feel the blood and magic seeping into her claws, into her. Changing her. Hardening the barbs on her hands, sharpening the claws at the same time as it let her recall the hedge healing she had been taught in Arcadia more clearly. All Wyrd blessings and curses. The ability to heal or harm irrevocably intertwined. Like a knife cutting into a boy's arm.
And all Betony Rue could do was seek to control the power that was infusing her, trying to complete the Hag's lessons. Feel compelled to search it out, look for answers, and pray you never find them. It would only lead further down the path.