Uncle Beck asked why she hadn't told us sooner, and she said she had. I saw her jut her chin in that obstinate why she has. And Aunt Shelagh thought about it, and said, "You know, she did. She did tell me. I thought she was telling stories."

Alwyn said no one had believed her because she was just a kid. Then she left the room, while Uncle Beck, Aunt Shelagh, and I sat in the kitchen and weighed our guilt.

— Giomanach

I woke up on my seventeenth birthday feeling like someone had put me in a blender and set it to chop. Sleepily I blinked and checked my clock. Nine. Dawn had come at six, so I had gotten a big three hours' sleep. Great. And then I thought—is Hunter dead? Did I kill him? My stomach roiled, and I wanted to cry.

Under the covers, I felt a small warm body creeping cautiously along my side. When Dagda poked his little gray head out from under the covers, I stroked his ears.

"Hi, little guy," I said softly. I sat up just as the door to my room opened.

"Morning, birthday girl!" my mom said brightly. She led my room and pushed aside the curtains, filling my with brittle sunlight.

"Morning," I said, trying to sound normal. A vision of my finding out about Hunter made me shudder. It would destroy her.

She sat on my bed and kissed my forehead, as if I was seven instead of seventeen. Then she peered at me. "Do you feel all right?" She pressed the back of her hand against my forehead. "Hmmm. No fever. But your eyes look a bit red and puffy."

"I'm okay. Just tired," I mumbled. Time to change the subject. I had a sudden thought. "Is today really my actual birthday?" I asked.

Mom stroked my hair back from my face with a gentle and. "Of course it is. Morgan, you've seen your birth certificate," she reminded me.