His obsession with pre-Flash memorabilia was eclipsed only by his fascination with electronics from all eras and countries. Some of it he’d scavenged from abandoned homes and offices in the surrounding countryside, and some if it came from much farther afield; when Magnus went hunting, he never failed to bring something back for Beckett’s collection, pilfered from some lab or locked building.

Magnus’s Gifts rendered things like locks, and even walls, obsolete.

“Present?” Beckett perked up like a dog when it hears the word treat, his eyes alight. “What present? What is it?”

Another reason to love him: He was easy to please. Morgan stretched out her arms, opened her palms, and said, “You’re welcome.”

He went still, eyes widening. “No way.”

Morgan laughed. “Way. Take it, will you, it’s freezing my hands!”

“On the glass, on the glass!” He swatted aside the tiny silver chip beneath the lighted microscope as if it were a fly. “Here!”

Morgan gingerly deposited the heavy chunks onto the lighted glass base of the microscope and sat back, watching Beckett with an affectionate smile. He leaned down to peer at it. Beneath the glass, the light ticked up several degrees, though he hadn’t touched any dial or switch.

“Whoa,” he breathed, “this is totally new technology. There are all kinds of code embedded in the links, and is that . . . what is that?” A bubble of light the size of Morgan’s wedding band hovered over a jagged spot on the edge of a broken link, illuming the blackened metal from both sides. He made an interested grunt. “I’ve never seen that on any of the other collars.”

“No doubt they’re improving all the time,” muttered Morgan sourly.

Careful not to touch it with his fingers, Beckett used a pair of wooden tongs to rotate the broken collar. The bubble of light followed the move. “Why is it frozen?” He tapped a link. “Honor?”

“Mmm.” Beckett’s Gift fascinated her no end. What must it be like to be a power source all your own? She thought she’d probably use it to create an age-defying diffuse glow around her face, then wondered absently if she could bribe him to follow her around, doing just that. She touched her cheek, considering.

“So Magnus is back.”

“That he is.”

Beckett looked up expectantly, as if just realizing what that meant. “And?”

A swell of emotion rose inside her, huge and bright, and for a moment she couldn’t answer. Half her lifetime of searching, and finally, finally they’d succeeded. Morgan still didn’t quite believe it was real.

She said simply, “Mission accomplished.”

A new light appeared in his eyes. A new tension sharpened his face. “I want to meet her.”

Morgan recognized that look. It was a version of the expression Magnus got whenever Hope’s name was mentioned, from the time he’d been a much younger man, with an unscathed face and a soul untouched by darkness. He’d never even met Hope, so it made no sense whatsoever, but each and every time someone said her name, Magnus’s eyes would grow darker and hotter, his face flush with something that looked—before he could stifle it—suspiciously like longing.

And here was Beckett doing the same thing. Morgan sincerely hoped every unmated male in this colony wasn’t going to start fighting over her goddaughter. Then again, she thought, brightening, we haven’t had a proper suitor challenge around here in ages.

God knew Honor wasn’t going to be helping that situation along anytime soon, prickly ice queen that she was.

“You will. Just not right now; she’s on her way to meet the Assembly. Which is where I should be going, incidentally.” She stood. “I’ll see you—”

He stood also, abandoning the collar. “On her way to the Assembly? How long has she been here?”

“Hours, ducky. She’s been asleep—”

“And I’m just now finding out? Why doesn’t anybody tell me anything around here?” He seemed really aggravated. He stared at her, awaiting an answer.

“Because, dear boy, you spend most of your time hunched over this table, fiddling with your computers and sending encoded messages all over the world—”

“Planning is a necessity when you’re trying to overthrow a totalitarian regime—”

“—which doesn’t allow for much in the way of conversation. Your groupies might love you, but they’ve learned by now not to come knocking when the lab lights are on. Hence your lack of knowledge on the comings and goings of new—and quite lovely, I might add—persons.”

The treats and presents look returned to his face. He crossed his arms over his chest. Trying to seem nonchalant and utterly failing, he drawled, “So. She’s pretty then.”

Drily, Morgan said, “She looks exactly like her sister, Beckett. She’s more than pretty.”

His lips twisted. “So she’s scary pretty.”

“When I said she was lovely, I wasn’t talking about her face.”

Now he looked confused. “So she’s . . . nice?”

Morgan considered that. “If by ‘nice’ you mean she’s the type of girl who’s afraid to say what’s on her mind, or ask for what she wants, or wouldn’t tell you when you’re being an asshole because she might bruise your delicate ego, then, no. She’s not nice.” A smile lit her face. “She’s unnice. In fact, she’s decidedly wicked.”

Eyes sparkling, he looked at her a beat. “Sounds interesting.”

Her smile slowly faded. She exhaled a heavy sigh. “She’s more like her mother than I ever would have guessed, knowing her twin. Hope has that same rebellious streak as her mother, that same fearlessness. Yet she’s much more . . .” she searched for a word, inspecting her singed sleeve. “I don’t know. Fragile, maybe. Sensitive. Jenna was always so self-contained. So self-assured. Hope seems like the kind of girl who could slay a dragon to save a village if she had to, but would cry herself to sleep later, wondering if the beast had a family who would mourn.”

Beckett lowered his brows. “So she’s manic-depressive.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Morgan threw up her hands. “She’s disoriented, is what she is! As you would be, too, if you were shot and collared and woke up in a strange place with strange people. So do me a favor when you meet her: be kind.” She turned to leave.

Beckett’s voice climbed a notch. “Shot?”

Without turning, Morgan said over her shoulder, “Believe me, pet, that’s the least terrible thing that’s happened to that poor girl recently.”

She headed toward the Assembly room, leaving the normally sunny Beckett behind to brood.

Lu stared at Magnus with the kind of silence one reserves for funerals, and discussions with medical professionals about that large, inoperable tumor they’ve just discovered in your brain.

“My mother is alive,” she repeated disbelievingly. Magnus nodded, watching her warily, it seemed, for any unusual outbursts. Like a giant ball of fire, for instance. But she felt nothing but that pervasive, numbing shock. She wondered if that was her brain’s defense mechanism, deciding quickly that she preferred numbness to howling fits. At least it was less embarrassing.

A godmother. A sister. And now a mother—all alive.

“When do I meet her?”

Magnus hesitated. “She’s not here.”

“Where is she, then? Can I go to her?”

More awkward silence. Then: “The thing is . . . we don’t know exactly where your mother is.” He added firmly, “But she’s definitely alive.”

Lu blinked at him, more confused than ever. “How do you know she’s alive if you don’t know where she is?”

“Because of Honor’s Gift.”

When she just waited him out, he added, “Telepathy.”