Joscelin sits in what is becoming his accustomed chair and draws his knees to his chest. Even after the hot bath, and even in a warm kitchen, wrapped in a thick blanket, he still feels cold.

He opens his mouth, and suddenly words start coming out.

“We were in London, but we needed to leave because it wasn’t safe. I think we were quite rich; mother was yelling at the servants about my horse.” His brow wrinkles as he puzzles it over. “It seems like it was a very long time ago, but how can that be? I can’t have died so long ago if I know how technology works...”

So much about this doesn’t add up.

“Then there was shouting and the men came. I...fought them off but then—“ It gets fuzzy from there. The next thing he could remember was being held by strong arms and feeling curiously weak and ill while his mother pleaded for his life in exchange for her own.

“They said she was condemned. And then they cut her head off.”