“Let’s set you down for a nap,” she said. “Let’s see if you are my brave little hero, eh?” Leo was sleepy. She nestled him into his blankets in a warm mound of red and yellow—

pillows? The bed was like a cubbyhole in the wall, made of blackened bricks, with a metal slot over his head and a square hole far above, where he could see the stars. He remembered resting comfortably, grabbing at sparks like fireflies. He dozed, and dreamed of a boat made of fire, sailing through the cinders. He imagined himself on board, navigating the sky. Somewhere nearby, Tía Callida sat in her rocking chair— creak, creak, creak—and sang a lullaby. Even at two, Leo knew the difference between English and Spanish, and he remembered being puzzled because Tía Callida was singing in a language that was neither.

Everything was fine until his mother came home.

She screamed and raced over to snatch him up, yelling at Tía Callida, “How could you?” But the old lady had disappeared.

Leo remembered looking over his mother’s shoulder at the flames curling around his blankets.

Only years later had he realized he’d been sleeping in a blazing fireplace.

The Lost Hero, Chapter XI