Ianthe Styles was fearless, for she already faced everything she had to fear. She was kind and gentle and loving. Ianthe Styles was scarred, for she already faced everything she had to fear. She was broken and bruised and beaten. Desmond Styles was schizophrenic and drank away the insanity. But when his wife left him and he broke into the infant care center at the hospital after she gave birth to the last of their children, he picked his baby daughter up and ran, threatening a nurse to write a report and speak this to no one. Everyone believed Little Ianthe to be dead, a stillborn. Nineteen years later, she's running down the street, in a flurry of panic and bruises, before she smacks flat into a certain Irish boy in the streets of London. "And she always had a way with her brokenness. She would take her pieces and make them beautiful." - R.M. Drake