Harlow was dreaming.
But it didn't feel like a dream. It felt like remembering.
She was standing in a huge library with shelves so tall that she couldn't see where they ended. The two moons of Cretea were shining through the windows. She was wearing a silk dress she had never owned, and when she looked down at her hands, they were not her hands.
They were Rowena's hands.
And Harlow understood, the way you understand things in dreams, that she was not watching Rowena.
She WAS Rowena.
For three months, Rowena read every book in King Areal's library that mentioned the magic dust.
It was not easy. Most of the books only mentioned it in passing, like it was a sacred thing that nobody was supposed to talk about. The source of all magic in Cretea. The royal family's greatest treasure, kept in a vault under the Pantheon that could only be opened by royal blood.
