On warm, moonlit nights, when the Father’s men had gone into the village to drink and chase women, she had slipped under the fence and into that cool, green darkness. The Father had told her that it was impossible for her to remember her mother (she died birthing you, Cristál, he would always say, hating her with his eyes) but Dani felt her presence in every shadow, heard her whisper in every movement through the leaves. Mama had belonged to the jungle, had been buried by the Father somewhere in it, and so she had become a part of Dani’s rare night wanderings. Tonight she felt her mother as if from a distance, but that hint of tender love was all she needed. She raced through the brush, chasing it not in desperation but in a playful, teasing fashion that made her mother’s ghost laugh. Until the dark man stepped out into the moonlight, blocking her path. Daniela. He held out his hand, tiny golden lights filling the palm. Don’t run away from me. She stayed. She had never like men very much—the Father often hurt her, and the guards despised and feared her—but the dark man felt different.
