I floated in darkness, my limbs heavy yet weightless. I recognized this state—the hypnotic suspension where past and present blurred together. Theronius's voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Seraphina, I'd like to go back to another important memory," he said softly. "You're thirteen years old now. After leaving the orphanage. Tell me what you see."
The darkness shifted, colors swirling and reforming. Suddenly, I was there, my body small and awkward, sharp with adolescent angles and hollow from hunger.
"I'm with Lyra," I whispered, my voice sounding young even to my own ears. "We've been on the streets for three weeks now."
Rain dripped from a rusty fire escape above us as Lyra and I huddled in an alleyway. We'd fashioned a makeshift shelter from cardboard and plastic bags, but it did little against the persistent April drizzle. My stomach cramped with hunger—we hadn't eaten since yesterday morning when a kind bakery owner had given us day-old rolls.
