The golden liquid burned going down, but not like the first two glasses. This heat was different. Warm. Almost comforting. It spread through my chest like sunlight, like hope, like every beautiful lie I'd ever told myself about who I could be.
Then the warmth turned sharp.
The chamber dissolved around me. The marble table, the Duchess, the other failing wolves, all of it melted away like watercolors in rain. I tried to grab onto something, anything, but my hands found only empty air.
I fell backward through darkness that smelled like cinnamon and regret.
When the world solidified again, I was small.
I looked down at my hands and found them childlike, pudgy with youth. Five years old, maybe six. My fingernails were painted pink, chipped from playing outside. I wore a yellow dress with white flowers that my mother had sewn herself, the stitches uneven but made with love.
