Midday sun filters through the burnt orange and deep red leaves of the sugar maple overhead, mottling Viola’s pale face with dark shadows and bright light. She rests her shoulders against the maple’s trunk and ducks her head to keep the sun out of her eyes. Curtains of untamed hair—seemingly wind blown despite only the mildest breeze—fall around her face as she peers down at a handwritten journal. Her deliberately rough scratch scrawl fills the pages, though the words are not her own. “Close your eyes,” she instructs Tybalt and prepares to read.