Anyway, this letter is yours now since I’m leaving you the house and the cluviel dor. It may not seem fair that Jason didn’t get anything magical, but your grandfather’s friend said Fintan had watched both of you, and you were the one it should go to. I guess I hope you won’t ever need to know any of this. I always wondered if your problem came from you being a little bit fairy, but then, how come Jason wasn’t the same? Or your dad and Linda, for that matter? Maybe you being able to “know things” just happened. I wish I could have cured it so you could have had a normal life, but we have to take what God gives us, and you’ve been real strong handling it.

Please be careful. I hope you’re not mad at me, or think the worse of me. All God’s children are sinners. At least my sinning led to life for you and Jason and Hadley.

Adele Hale Stackhouse (Grandmother)

There was so much to think about that I didn’t know where to start.

I was simultaneously stunned, startled, curious, and confused. Before I could stop myself, I picked up my other relic, the worn velvet bag. I loosened the drawstring, which crumbled in my fingers. I opened the bag and let the hard thing inside—the cluviel dor, the gift from my fairy grandfather—fall into my palm.

I loved it instantly.

It was a creamy light green, trimmed in gold. It was like one of the snuffboxes at the antiques store, but nothing in Splendide had been this beautiful. I could see no catch, no hinge, nothing; it didn’t pop open when I gently pressed and twisted the lid—and there was definitely a lid, trimmed in gold. Hmmm. The round box wasn’t ready to yield its secret.

Okeydokey. Maybe I had to do some research. I put the object to one side and sat with my hands folded on the table, staring into space. My head was crowded with thoughts.

Gran had obviously been very emotional when she wrote the letter. If our “godfather” had given Gran more information about this gift, either she’d neglected to mention it or she simply hadn’t remembered anything else. I wondered when she’d forced herself to set down this confession. Obviously, it had been written after Aunt Linda died, which had happened when Gran was in her seventies. My birth grandfather’s friend—I was pretty sure I recognized the description. Surely the “godfather” was Mr. Cataliades, demon lawyer. I knew it must have cost her plenty to say—on paper—that she’d had sex with someone other than her husband. My grandmother had been a strong individual, and she’d also been a devout Christian. Such an admission must have haunted her.