"No—knife!" The blade left her hand and clattered on cobblestones. Heads fell like fruit from a tree. People screamed. A man's blood painted the market square dark. Colette's palm stayed sticky. She heard commands shouted in a language she had not used in years. She tasted metal and the smoke of torches. "Hold her!" someone shouted. A hand grabbed her braid. Her knees hit cold stone. She smelled damp wool, sweat, and fear. A face leaned in. "Say his name," an executioner said. "Tell him why." Colette opened her mouth. The name came out raw and loud. Someone answered with a cry. A head thumped in the dirt. Then a monitor beeped with flat, steady rhythm. "Come on, come on," a nurse said. Colette coughed. Fluorescent light stabbed her eyes. The smell changed from smoke to disinfectant. Her hand felt wrong on a hospital sheet. There was a wet bandage where her shoulder should be. Machines kept the beat of her breath. "She's waking," a technician said. She blinked at a ceiling of white tiles and hung medical tape. The world narrowed to the hiss of oxygen and the needle-prick hurt of being alive. "Who am I?" she said before she knew she said it. The voice that answered was not her own. "You are Colette Henry," a woman said. "You were found outside Summit. You have amnesia. For now, rest." Colette tasted blood and soap. The memory of a knife was still in her