“I’d like you to do a First Sight reading on yourself,” she says. “Find a memory that has been lost to the sands of time and experience it again. See it in as much detail as possible.”

I sprinkle the bones with my blood and set them alight. Then I extinguish the flame with a heavy iron lid and tip the bones onto the cloth in front of me.

The magic leaps from my fingers and pulls me into the vision the instant I make contact with the bones. I’m swept away before I’m fully ready.

I’m so accustomed to reading possibilities that the view of my past startles me. It isn’t a network of ever-branching paths, but one long, glimmering ribbon, as if this one life was always inevitable. I walk down it in reverse, starting with opening my eyes in Latham’s shop and moving through the memories of my training at Ivory Hall. Backward even further, to my kenning, where my mother matches me as a Bone Charmer—no First, Second, or Third Sight designation necessary. And she pairs me with Bram. I’m unhappy, but I don’t reach for the bone. Don’t break it.

I keep wandering backward, luxuriating in the familiar sights and smells of Midwood—the subtle fragrance of the pale pink blossoms on the trees, the gentle burble of the river in the distance. I sit with Ami on the banks of the Shard, our feet dangling in the cool water. I find my father and delight in hearing his voice again. At smelling the remnants of paint wafting from his skin. At feeling the scratch of his whiskers on my cheek when he kissed me good night.

I stand in the kitchen with Gran, shelling peas while she tells me stories. I lie in the cool grass under the stars and listen to the soft hoot of an owl.

And then I go to my mother. I find a moment when I am very young. I’ve just had a nightmare, and she pads into my room, barefoot, hair loose and hanging nearly to her waist. Her face is limned in moonlight. Her expression is gentle.

“I had a bad dream,” I tell her.

She sits on the edge of my bed, pushes my hair off my forehead. “Yes, I heard.”

“Will you stay with me for a while?”

“Of course I will.” She pulls the covers up and tucks them under my chin. “Do you want to hear a story?”

“Yes, please.”

“It’s a true story,” she says. “And it happened just the other day.”

In the vision, I give a disappointed sigh. “True stories aren’t as good as made-up ones.”

She laughs. “That’s usually true. But I think you’ll like this story. It’s about you.”

That gets my attention and I perk up just a little.