She ran into the clearing in front of the house and stopped. Trembling. Faelon’s pink skin turned silver under the moonlight, as if an ethereal force drove her, like magic catching fire. Michael waited. He had the feeling that something should have happened. That Faelon expected it the same way she breathed in the night air. As if the night should shimmer with enchantment, or the world shift into another realm, like his books told of—but it didn’t.

And then she cried into the night, lifted her voice to the moon and the saddest sound he had ever heard pierced the still cold air.

His heart broke, like glass, shattering over ice.