“Aren’t you concerned?”
Seraphina looked up from the book she’d been reading, not one of the ones the library had sent over. She had been poring through those for hours before growing distracted by a paperback collection of lyrical compositions written to reflect the constellations and the changing seasons. It was less a book and more a sheaf of loose-leaf papers stitched together with silver twine, but the ebb and flow of the poetry was lovely. They were less simple poems, and more akin to hymns. There was no author listed on the cover, only an image of the moon embroidered with the same silver thread, surrounded by dancing pleiades and muses outlined by polaris, betelgeuse and vega. Seraphina had been reading through it, her fingers plucking at invisible strings as she imagined what sor
