I pick up the flint in one hand, the small smooth stone in the other, and spark them together. Then I set the bone on fire. I wait a few moments until the bone is sufficiently blackened, until the putrid smell snakes through the incense and assaults my nostrils before extinguishing the flame with a heavy iron lid. Then I tip the bone onto the ground.

The pull of the magic is immediate and intense. It sings to me—beckoning me to dance—and the blood in my veins leaps in response, tugging me into a vision.

The prisoner sits just as we found him—on the dirt floor of his cell, one ankle shackled to the stone wall. His knees are bent toward his chest, his head thrown back. Jensen. The man’s name slides into my mind as easily as dark slipping into daybreak. One moment it isn’t there, and the next it is—bright, clear, and unmistakable.

Emotions roll through Jensen like a storm—thunderclaps of anger, drizzles of self-pity, but hanging over it all is a thick fog of worry. In his mind, I see his family. His partner, Fredrik, a man both bigger and gentler than Jensen. And their young son, Boe, with his curious brown eyes and golden-bronze hair. What will become of them if he’s convicted of a crime? Boe’s mother died when he was a baby. If Jensen never goes home, will Boe’s grandparents allow Fredrik to raise him? He can’t bear the thought of Fredrik losing both his partner and his child in a single cruel moment. Or of Boe losing the only two parents he’s ever known.

Outside the vision, I tense. This hardly seems like evidence. I need to know what Jensen actually did to end up here. As if responding to my thought, the scene shifts: the gentle rhythm of horse hooves on a pebble-strewn trail, Boe’s laughter floating on the breeze like a melody.

Jensen sits astride a brown mare. Boe rides in front of him, his expression full of delight as he points out trees, rocks, and plants.

“Did you see that bird back there, Papa? It had a purple chest and a blue head.”

“You have sharp eyes,” Jensen says. “I missed that one.”

“It would be funny if you had a purple chest and a blue head.”

Jensen chuckles. “Indeed it would. Do you think Da would still love me if I were purple and blue?”

“Probably?”