After the warmth of the kitchen and the small, fragile moment of peace they had shared over dinner, both Cassian and Maeve had retreated to their separate rooms. But as sleep finally claimed the house, the darkness began to twist into something ugly and familiar.
Maeve was twelve years old again. In the dream, the air was thick with the smell of rain and the sharp, metallic scent of copper. She looked down at her small, trembling hands, and her heart stopped.
They were soaked in deep, crimson blood. It was wet on her skin and staining her white clothes a horrific shade of rust. Her mother lay on the floor in front of her, her eyes wide and glassy, fixed on Maeve with a look of pure, agonizing disappointment.
"You didn't save me," her mother whispered, her voice sounding cold and hollow
