“You used to tell the best stories. But you can’t make up stories like that.” When Noah looked back at Rose, she had a rag doll in her lap. “Those stories, you have to live, if you’re ever going to believe them.”

“Are you knocked up again?”

The moment broke and Rose tumbled out of his mind even as she fell back on the bed, laughing.

“You are.”

“You’re not the problem child around here, Noah,” she said, still laughing. She propped herself up on her elbows and shook her wild chestnut hair out of her face. “You just have problems.”

Noah held his hand out to her when she reached for him, the hand that was still missing the finger that had worn his wedding ring. She was careful not to tug too hard. The healers—his mother and Alice-from-up-river—were still working against his magic and his memories to heal him. The scars on the soul, the saying went, would never leave the flesh until they healed within.

“Come on, baby.”

He let his sister reel him in like a fish—his mind struggling against being comforted all the way—

until he was lying beside her with his head on her shoulder. Once, it had been the other way around. Once, he’d been the one to hold her; his familiar thoughts and his impotent magic had made his presence tolerable, even with her mind torn wide open.

When their father thought she didn’t need him anymore, he’d left the enclave and he couldn’t be there for her. She’d had her magic and all the pain it gave her and he’d had nothing, and he would have traded places with her in an instant.

“I know you would have,” she said, in his head. “Like I would now, except that it really is beautiful on you.” In her third eye, he was a pillar of sunlight with a halo like the heart of a candle flame. “It’s yours.

You’re going to be amazing.”

“Telling futures now?” He closed his eyes and listened to her sturdy heart.

“Best fortune teller is the past,” she quoted. “You always were amazing, Noah. You didn’t need magic to be magical. You’re not the one who watched you being beautiful all those years. People want to love you.”

“That’s what they call irony,” he said dully. Beauty was going to come slowly, if it came at all. There was only one love he wanted and the long years of his mage life stretched out like a galaxy between them now. Maybe he’d get— “Ow!”

Rose’s sharp nails left cruel little crescents of pain on his ear. “None of that.”

“Sorry.” Noah let the thought go and was rewarded by her kiss on his too-hot, too-thin scalp. “So, who’s Dad gonna kill this time?” He laid his hand on her soft belly, wondering who was in there instead of wishing he were dead.

“I have a list,” Rose said unapologetically, making him laugh with it.

“I love you.” He said it inside and outside.

A knock on the door was followed by the handle twisting and a dark head poking in. Ruthie.

“Hey, little bit.” Noah took a deep breath and pushed away all his negativity as he struggled to sit up without wincing. Ruthie was still waiting for her magic, still a spindly girl with unraveling braids and skinned knees. He always put on a good face for her. “Did you need something?”

“Daddy’s home,” she said solemnly, smoothing down her clean pinafore. “Mama says to come. He brought Nathan.”

Nathan had been sent all the way to Ireland, to a druid henge that needed a healer ready to step into the place left when one of the elders passed. The letter had come to them by way of the Australia Quinns, and Nathan had leapt at the chance to leave, even though it meant he might never return. That he’d come home could only mean one thing.

“You’re going,” Rose said softly.

“I know.” Noah got to his feet. Nathan had come to do what Mama and Alice couldn’t, to make him fit for the world again. “Thanks, sweetheart. Tell Daddy I’ll be right there.”

“You’re going?” Ruthie didn’t move, her small brown hand white-knuckled on the doorknob. She’d been stricken when he left the first time. “You can’t go. Who’s going to take care of you?”

“It’s important,” Rose said gently. “That’s how we survive, Twiglet.” She got up, shaking out her skirt in a gesture so much like their mother that it was eerie. “That’s how we make our families.”

“Noah’s sick, though.” Ruthie’s lower lip pushed out and her eyes glistened.

“His new home will make him better than his old one.” Rose looked over her shoulder at Noah, and he could feel the words she didn’t say: If he lets it. “Besides, they need him. He’s running late, this one.

You know what they say.”

“I know.” Ruthie sucked it up and rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. “Born by chance, bound by choice. It’s the way of it.” That sigh was their mother’s as well.

“Go get Kaylene for me, baby,” Rose said. “I hear her waking.”

“Okay!” Just like that, sorrows forgotten, Ruthie was gone with the flash of a smile and the thunder of bare feet. She was no end of proud about being allowed to take charge of Rose’s first, who was turning two.

Babies were a good cure for sadness, Mama always said. Noah never asked what it meant that she had so many.

“You look like shit,” Rose said matter-of-factly. “Let’s hope Nathan can do something for you, or whoever gets you is going to send you back with a complaint.”

“Shut up or I’ll tell Dad you’re knocked up.” Noah tried to stifle his terror and emptiness and the yawning dark that whispered about it being easier to lie down and not get up instead of facing the world.

“Oh, I’m already a ruined woman. It’s only a shock once.” Rose came over and kissed his cheek. “It’s good that Nathan came to help you get ready. You need to go.”

“What?” That felt like betrayal, that she hadn’t told him he was ready to leave. He couldn’t see it from inside his unhappiness.

“Oh, Noah.” Rose stopped in the doorway and laughed at him. “You’re burning the carpet. Try not to do that in your new house.”

Fire was dripping from his fingers, and Noah swore as he stamped out the smoldering carpet and shook off the flames. The old bracelet he wore—the barre salvetet—was supposed to stop the magic leaking out, but nothing was quite enough.

Noah didn’t blame his father for sending him away; Abram couldn’t have his oldest son cluttering up the house. It wasn’t seemly. People might think Abram was hoarding his children, what with Rose still living here. Besides, all the common wisdom said Rose was right. He needed to go, if he was going to keep living. Here, he had too much time to hate himself, and too many reminders of all the reasons he should—

no one could heal with the wounds pulled open every morning.

Lindsay’s heart pounded, and adrenaline surged through his veins. The few seconds he took to glance behind him were wasted; he couldn’t see past the mass of people moving in and out of the casinos.

Line of sight didn’t matter to the hunter on Lindsay’s heels. He was coming, whether Lindsay could see him or not. Lindsay couldn’t wait anymore, trying to catch a glimpse of him.

He turned and ran, losing himself in the crowd. The boardwalk was packed, a midday rush of bodies seeking sustenance away from the blackjack tables and the slot machines, and once his magic settled into place, he fit right in. Panicking was the worst thing he could do. Predators could sense fear. He wasn’t prey anymore.

He slipped past a rickshaw and into the Taj Mahal, through the entrance lit with bright red neon even during the day. The inside was as crammed with tourists as the street out front. Lindsay wound his way through, between slots and poker and men saying, “Hit me,” like they knew what they were doing. The sea of anonymity gave him a moment to catch his breath and figure out where to go next.