He told her how bad things were, how he was losing hope. If only she would tell him it would be all right, the way she used to do with her fingers brushing his cheek, he could find a way to keep going.
One year ago, four men tried to steal the gate money after closing.
Garde, on his way back to his and Luna’s wagon after drinking with the freaks, surprised them with his irons. Two robbers died, two escaped. One’s stray bullet clipped Luna solid in the back of her head.
What happened after that, Garde still couldn’t explain.
Alhazarda had come running with his magic bag. Tears streaming from his eyes, he slid his daughter, Luna, into it, whispered words Garde didn’t know, then did—well, Garde didn’t know exactly what. Luna should’ve died that night, but she didn’t. Nor was she exactly a
