Lenora's POV
Senna talked for two hours.
Her voice was quiet and occasionally uncertain, but her memory was precise in the way that traumatic memory always is — the small details vivid and exact, the larger sequence sometimes blurred. She remembered the smell of the storeroom where she'd hidden when the fire started. She remembered the color of the torch the man had been carrying. She remembered his hands.
"He was careful," she said. "He moved like someone who had done it before. Or had practiced."
"Could you identify him?"
"Yes." She looked at her broken wrist — the wrongly healed bone, the slight crook. "But I was afraid."
"You're here now," I said. "What changed?"
She was quiet for a moment. "Another family in our settlement was displaced last month. Old Mira's grandmother. They
