Ethan rolled that word around his mind for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, I guess it is. So a child born of a Fae mother is much more Fae than human, and a child born of a human mother is much more human than Fae.”

“Which is why a child born of a Fae mother can’t pass from Avalon to the mortal world, and vice versa,” Kimber said.

Ethan nodded. “Exactly. But the most powerful Fae also have the most dominant genes. So when someone like Seamus Stuart has a child with a human woman, that child will be more Fae than the average half-blood. When the circumstances are just right, that child can be a literal half-blood, truly half human and half Fae. And instead of being affiliated solely with her mother’s realm, that child is affiliated with both realms.”

“They’re called Faeriewalkers,” Kimber said, “because they can pass freely from Avalon into Faerie, or into the mortal world, whichever they choose.”

“Which makes them powerful enough,” Ethan continued, and it was almost like the two of them had rehearsed this conversation, each memorizing their lines so they could trade off to maximum effect. “But what makes the Faeriewalkers even more powerful is that they can carry technology into Faerie.”

“And magic into the mortal world,” Kimber added.

I sat there gaping like an idiot, and I felt almost as dizzy as when … I shied away from the memory of looking over that guardrail into the misty distance.

I swallowed hard and finally found my voice. “Holy shit!” I said. I’m not usually much of a cusser, but if ever there were an occasion to start cussing, this would be it. This was way, way worse than I’d thought even in my wildest dreams. And here I’d come to Avalon in hopes of having a more normal life.

“So when I looked out into the distance…” I started, my voice sounding weird and scratchy.

Ethan nodded. “You were seeing what Faeriewalkers call the Glimmerglass—the window that looks out into the mortal world and Faerie at the same time. I’ve heard it’s … disorienting.”

I managed a nervous laugh as I wiped my clammy palms on my pants legs. “That’s one way to describe it.” I remembered the dizziness and nausea, the memory so strong my stomach lurched even now. “How many of us are there?” I asked, because there was no point in arguing I wasn’t a Faeriewalker. I wished I could convince myself I’d been hallucinating earlier, but I knew what I’d seen.

I felt, rather than saw, the look Ethan and Kimber exchanged. By some silent arrangement, it was Ethan who answered.

“The last one before you died about seventy-five years ago.”

I nodded sagely. And then I leapt to my feet, knocking over my chair, and barely made it to the bathroom in time to puke up my Cheerios.

I locked myself in the bathroom and stayed there for the better part of an hour. Kimber and Ethan each made one attempt to get me to come out, but they gave up when I didn’t answer. I’m sure they could have forced the door open if they’d wanted to, but luckily for me, they left me alone.

I’d always despised my mom for her drinking, but I swear, if there’d been any alcohol handy, I’d have tried some in hopes that it would make everything go away. I sat on the closed toilet, my knees drawn up to my chest, my arms wrapped around my legs, wondering if there was any way I could get myself out of this mess. Aunt Grace had said that even if I left Avalon, I’d be a target now that people knew about me. And since Grace had my passport, it wasn’t like I was getting out of Avalon anyway.

Tears stung my eyes. Why couldn’t my mother just be a normal mom? Why couldn’t she just go to some stupid twelve-step program and dry out? She’d never even tried. If she’d only tried to stop drinking, maybe I never would have gotten so fed up I had to run away, and none of this would have happened. I didn’t need her to be perfect, I just needed her to be sober. Was that too much to ask?

I sniffled, then dashed the tears from my eyes. If there was one thing I’d learned in my life, it was that tears didn’t get me anywhere. I was the one who always had to keep my head while my mom had hysterics over the crisis-du-jour. I’d gotten very good at setting my own feelings aside to be dealt with later, so that’s what I did now. It was harder than usual, but eventually I managed to pull myself back together.

Ethan was gone when I finally ventured out of my cave. Kimber was clattering around in the kitchen again, and I headed toward the sound. I smelled something cooking. At first, I thought it smelled like rice, but I realized that wasn’t right. My stomach, having thoroughly emptied itself of its meager contents, thought whatever it was smelled pretty good.

When I entered the kitchen, Kimber was mashing something the color of paste and the consistency of vomit through a strainer. Suddenly, it didn’t smell quite so good anymore. Thick, off-white liquid dripped through the strainer into a small pot sitting on the stove. When she’d forced every bit of liquid she could out of the strainer, she dumped the contents into the trash.

“Almost ready,” she said, not looking at me, her whole concentration fixed on her task. Steam wafted into her face, and I saw that a fine sheen of sweat coated her skin. Whatever she was doing, it was hot work.

“I’m afraid to ask,” I said, “but what’s almost ready?”

She poured a good-sized dollop of honey into the pot and stirred it around. Then she turned on the stove, and low blue flames caressed the bottom of the pot.

“Your hot posset,” she said, reaching into the cabinet over the sink and pulling down a bottle of something that had the distinctive amber color of alcohol.

“What’s a posset?” I asked as I watched her pour a generous dose of—I squinted at the label—whiskey into the pot.

“It’s what you give someone if they have a cold. Or if they have a headache. Or if they’ve had a bad day. Or if they can’t sleep. Or if—”

“Okay, got it. Cure-all remedy. But I’m too young to drink.”

She laughed, wiping the sweat from her brow with her forearm. “Legally, I am, too, but that’s not going to stop me. I had my first posset when I was five. You’re older than five, aren’t you?”

I sniffed the air, trying to identify the smell, but all I could recognize was the whiskey. “But what is it? What’s in it, other than enough booze to make me wear a lampshade on my head?”

She shrugged and stirred the posset, which was steaming merrily. “Milk. Oat meal. Honey. A bit of nutmeg. And the fine Irish whiskey, of course.”

Oh, gross! Oatmeal? Who puts oatmeal in a drink? I wondered how I was going to get out of drinking it without being completely rude.

Kimber turned off the stove and got out a couple of mugs, filling each one to the brim with the thick, milky liquid. I’m sure I was making a face, but that didn’t seem to discourage Kimber. She thrust one of the mugs at me, and I took it almost by reflex. Then I just stood there staring at it, wondering if I was going to have to make another run for the bathroom.

“I promise it’s not poisonous,” Kimber said as she blew on her posset, then took a delicate sip. “And there’s almost no situation a good, hot posset can’t make better.”

I hesitated a moment longer. Then I thought about being attacked by Spriggans last night, about looking through the Glimmerglass this afternoon, and finding out that I was the one and only Faeriewalker currently in existence, and I decided that drinking the posset couldn’t possibly be such a big deal after all.

I took a tentative sip, and, of course, instantly burned my tongue. And the sip continued to burn as it slid down my throat and spread into my chest and stomach. I pounded my chest with my fist.

“Smooth,” I said in an exaggerated croak.