The year I turned sixteen, I became a wanderer.

This is London like I, Astoria, have never seen it before. An insider’s perspective, hidden deep in the heart of Bloomsbury, surrounded by strangers, where my family will never think to look.

When I wake the morning after fleeing from London, my whole body resounds with a dull ache, groaning inwardly as I prop myself up on my elbows. Terry is nowhere to be found in the little inn room, but I can see a faint shimmer of magic by the door – magical wards, most likely that will set off an alarming noise if a stranger attempts to broach them.