In the fog-drowned port of Halewick, there is a street that isn’t on any map, and Edda is the only one who remembers walking it. She remembers a face no one will name. She remembers a word that drains the colour from grown adults. She has spent seventeen years telling herself something is wrong with her.
Something is right with her, and it is the most dangerous thing in the world.
Because magic is forgetting. What the world forgets thoroughly enough doesn’t vanish. It sinks, whole and breathing, into the Underloam, the drowned country beneath the world. Most people never feel the floor under their grief. Edda can reach through it. She is a Reclaimer: she can pull the buried back up. The cost is that she has to carry its weight in her own skull, that every reclaiming cracks the surface, and that something starving climbs up after.
When Edda hauls a forgotten boy out of the dark and into the light, she saves him. She also draws the eyes of the Sextons: the ancient order that keeps the world thin, quiet, and forgetting, the order that has hunted Reclaimers to the last for six hundred years.
They know what she is before she does.
And the First Sexton, the man who should order her buried, looks at her muddy hands, and her unburied past, and lets her live.
Why?
