So much is riding on my idea, on his answer, that my hands are sweating with nerves, with anticipation, despite the cool underground temperature.

Trying to keep the hope—and fear—from my voice, I ask, “Have you ever tried projecting someone inward? Into their own mind?” I pause. “Into … into their own memories?”

Smith just stares at me, silent.

I dig my fingernails into my palms, not sure if I should explain further what I mean. I wait a moment and then open my mouth to try again, but he beats me to it.

“No, I’ve never tried that.”

I deflate, my hopes crashing around me.

“But that doesn’t mean I can’t.”

I feel like holding my breath as I watch his clear gray eyes lose focus while he considers.

“My ability works like any other Speaking ability—I have to stay within the limitations of projecting the consciousness of others elsewhere, but where that ‘elsewhere’ is can be determined by me. Like anything, it’s about my intent. I never would have discovered that I can project into dreams if I didn’t decide one day to give it a try. The same could be true for memories.” He taps a finger to his chin and adds, “At least in theory.”

Theory is better than nothing. Right now, theory is my only hope.

“I need you to try that with me.” Remembering my manners, I quickly add, “Please.”

Smith purses his lips. “Does Kael know about this?”

“Of course not. It’s the middle of the night.”

He sends me a flat look.

Guilt churns in my stomach. “I really am sorry. But like I said—this is important. I wouldn’t have woken you otherwise.”

Smith grumbles something under his breath and I know better than to ask him to repeat it, certain I’m better off not knowing. He jerks his head to the armchair by the bookcase, indicating for me to sit, then he pulls out a desk chair and moves it across the room, collapsing into it beside me.

“The sooner we do this, the sooner you’ll let me go back to sleep, right?’

I nod. “Right.”

“Then what’s this memory you want to revisit?”

I tug at one of the strings on my hoodie and admit, “I’m, uh, not entirely sure.”

A pause.

“Explain.”

Unable to muster more than a whisper, I say, “I think—I think my memories might have been modified. I think I might be under a command to forget certain … events in my life. Certain … people. I’m hoping you can help me remember.”

Another pause, this one longer.

“Let me see if I have this right,” he says dryly. “You want me to project your own consciousness into a memory that you’ve forgotten?” His expression speaks volumes. “You do realize how insane that sounds, right?”

I do. But still … “Can you do it?”