Dragons and humans are at war in this eagerly awaited sequel to the critically acclaimed and New York Times bestselling fantasy, Seraphina . Seraphina is tangled in a war between the dragon rebels and the human court. The dark secret of her true identity—half-dragon, half-human—has now become her advantage. Only she has the power to unite the kingdom, and she intends to use it.   Embarking on a life-changing journey, Seraphina seeks to find the rest of her half-dragon brethren, whose unique gifts may make the difference in the battle for the future of her world. But gathering everyone together is no straightforward task. Hidden histories and outright lies surface that make her task almost impossible.   Then Seraphina learns that someone is working against her. What hope is there for brokering peace between dragons and humans when an unlikely enemy is determined to see both go up in flames?   Praise for Seraphina :   A New York Times Bestseller An Indie Bestseller Winner of the William C. Morris Debut Award Recipient of 8 Starred Reviews   “Some of the most interesting dragons I’ve read.” —Christopher Paolini, New York Times bestselling author of Eragon   “Full of grace and gravitas.” — The Washington Post “Refreshing.”— Entertainment Weekly "This is a tale of love, mistakes, double-crosses, and pain---one that left me tied up in knots!"—Tamora Pierce, New York Times bestselling author  “Dragon fiction has never flown higher.”— Kirkus Reviews , Starred  "...[A] worthy and wholly satisfying continuation of Seraphina’s tale."— Publishers Weekly, Starred “Blazing. Clever surprises, and lovely prose.”— Booklist, Starred As a child, RACHEL HARTMAN played cello, lip-synched Mozart operas with her sisters, and fostered the deep love of music that inspired much of Seraphina . Rachel earned a degree in comparative literature but eschewed graduate school in favor of bookselling and drawing comics. Born in Kentucky, she has lived in Philadelphia, Chicago, St. Louis, England, and Japan. She now lives with her family in Vancouver, Canada. To learn more, please visit SeraphinaBooks.com or RachelHartmanBooks.com. I returned to myself. I rubbed my eyes, forgetting that the left was bruised, and the pain snapped the world into focus. I was sitting on the splintery wooden floor of Uncle Orma’s office, deep in the library of St. Ida’s Music Conservatory, books piled around me like a nest of knowledge. A face looming above me resolved into Orma’s beaky nose, black eyes, spectacles, and beard; his expression showed more curiosity than concern. I was eleven years old. Orma had been teaching me meditation for months, but I’d never been so deep inside my head before, nor felt so disoriented emerging from it. He thrust a mug of water under my nose. I grasped it shakily and drank. I wasn’t thirsty, but any trace of kindness in my dragon uncle was a thing to encourage. “Report, Seraphina,” he said, straightening himself and pushing up his spectacles. His voice held neither warmth nor impatience. Orma crossed the room in two strides and sat upon his desk, not bothering to clear the books off first. I shifted on the hard floor. Providing me with a cushion would have required more empathy than a dragon—even in human form—could muster. “It worked,” I said in a voice like an elderly frog’s. I gulped water and tried again. “I imagined a grove of fruit trees and pictured the little Porphyrian boy among them.” Orma tented his long fingers in front of his gray doublet and stared at me. “And were you able to induce a true vision of him?” “Yes. I took his hands in mine, and then . . .” It was difficult to describe the next bit, a sickening swirl that had felt as if my consciousness were being sucked down a drain. I was too weary to explain. “I saw him in Porphyry, playing near a temple, chasing a puppy—” “No headache or nausea?” interrupted Orma, whose draconic heart could not be plied with puppies. I shook my head to make sure. “None.” “You exited the vision at will?” He might have been checking a list. “I did.” “You seized the vision rather than it seizing you?” Check. “Did you give a name to the boy’s symbolic representation in your head, the avatar?” I felt the color rise in my cheeks, which was silly. Orma was incapable of laughing at me. “I named him Fruit Bat.”  Orma nodded gravely, as if this were the most solemn and fitting name ever devised. “What did you name the rest?” We stared at each other. Somewhere in the library outside Orma’s office, a librarian monk was whistling off-key. “W-was I supposed to have done the rest?” I said. “Shouldn’t we give it some time? If Fruit Bat stays in his special garden and doesn’t plague me with visions, we’ll be certain—” “How did you get that black eye?” Orma said, his gaze hawkish. I pursed my lips. He knew perfectly well: I’d been overtaken by a vision during yesterday’s music lesson, fallen out of my chair, and slammed my face against th