Lucien dreamed that night for the first time in longer than he could remember, and he understood, even while it was happening, that what he was experiencing wasn't a dream at all in the ordinary sense — dreams were built from things a mind already owned, rearranged and softened at the edges. This felt like something else entirely. It felt like a room he'd never been inside, described to him in perfect, unnerving detail by someone standing just behind his shoulder.

He was small. Younger than he currently was, in the dream-logic way that never quite specified an age. A woman's voice was speaking close to his ear, low and...