Out beyond the glittering city of Fantome in the wild heart of the plains, the midnight moon hung like a lantern in the sky, bathing the farmhouse that belonged to Seraphine Marchant’s mother in a soft silver glow. The light crept in through Seraphine’s window and danced along the pages of her book, and for a moment, she imagined the curious moon was reading over her shoulder. She turned a page, the words blurring as her eyelids grew heavy. She should be asleep but she couldn’t rest at such a crucial point in the story. Even if she had read it eight times already. Even if, at eighteen years old, she was too old for fairy tales.

Pippin slumbered at her feet, warming her toes. As a dog of considerable age and with only three legs to carry him, he had no interest in the inky whispers of imagined adventures. He cared chiefly for naps, river sprats, and on occasion, Farmer Perrin’s chickens.

At the sudden sound of swearing, Seraphine turned her face to the window. Out in the garden, Mama was on her hands and knees hissing at the lavender, whorls of her thick black hair veiling her face. Unusual behavior, even for Sylvie Marchant. Seraphine frowned, closing her book. Down below, a cat darted from the bushes. Mama pounced, snatching up the startled tabby. It was Fig, so named because Seraphine often found the stray napping in the fig tree behind their house. Not that Mama had ever taken the slightest interest in him until now.

Seraphine watched as her mother pulled a familiar glass vial from the pocket of her cardigan before removing the stopper with her teeth. The cat yowled as Mama tipped the contents into his mouth. Pippin raised his head, a growl rumbling in his throat. Unease rumbled through Seraphine, too.