The fire grew, flames shimmering, the shaking leaves of a great golden tree. Around me, the moans and weeping of the crowd grew louder. Sankta, they cried. Sankta Alina. My eyes burned with the smoke. The smell was sickly sweet. Sankta Alina. No one knew his name to curse or extol, so I spoke it softly, beneath my breath. “Aleksander,” I whispered. A boy’s name, given up. Almost forgotten.
