It happened three weeks later, on a morning that had given every indication of being entirely ordinary — Ezra's coffee, slightly improved after weeks of determined practice, Lucien reviewing a foundation report at the kitchen table, the particular quiet contentment of two people who had begun, cautiously, to believe the worst of the danger truly had passed.

Lucien set down his cup, and then, without warning, without any of the disorientation or fear that usually preceded a memory loss, simply folded forward, his body going slack, the cup shattering against the tile as he slid from the chair before Ezra could cross the room fast enough to catch him.

"Lucien!"...