Francesca braced herself against the stone slab.

The sounds around her sharpened, magnified by the suffocating stillness of the cellar.

She thought she could hear the crackle of flames, ruthless and insatiable, devouring everything in their path. And then, faintly—impossibly—she thought she heard her grandmother’s voice, weaving its way through the chaos, tender as a lullaby from another life.

The sun is bright, the moon aglow, time for little ...