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Still, it was the first time I stopped fearing the Nightmare—the voice in my head, the creature with strange yellow eyes and an eerie, smooth voice. I inhaled him, leather and smoke and cedar, settling into his arms like a rabbit in its warm, safe den. But he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me against his chest in a hug so deep it blotted out Market Day entirely.
There once was a girl,” he murmured, “clever and good, who tarried in shadow in the depths of the wood. And even then, no one had ever held me so tightly—as if they needed me in their arms as much as I needed to be held.
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