Angela's POV
I was clinging to the edge of consciousness, the line between the treatment table and somewhere else blurring and shifting.
Healer chants moved through the air around me. Hands examined my wounds. The smell of Moonleaf compounds drifted in and out. Voices came in fragments — bleeding, Luna, pup — surfacing and then sinking again before I could hold onto them.
Then a pinprick of light appeared in the dark. I clawed toward it.
White carpet. Warm light through gauze curtains. A gleaming black piano at the center of the room.
I was nine years old, sitting at the bench, stumbling through Für Elise for the fourth time.
I hit the wrong note. Then another. I slammed my hands down on the keys.
My father crouched beside me. He had the kind of face that made you feel like nothing
