We always wanted to find a way to tell you the truth ourselves. But sometimes telling the truth is harder than living a lie, and we couldn’t stand the thought of seeing betrayal in your eyes. Headmaster Petrolas suggested we write this letter so that, when the time came for you to learn the details of your birth, your father and I would have a chance to explain things. Above all else, know that we love you and that you are our daughter in every possible way. We consider you our own, even though the bonds we share are not of blood. When you came into our lives, you filled a hole that we thought forever empty. We hope you can forgive us for the deception, but we thought it for the best that you did not know the truth until it was unavoidably necessary.

Yours with a full heart,

Mom and Dad

I slide the first sheet behind the second, and find myself reading what appears to be my birth certificate. All the familiar details remain the same—my birthday, my weight and length at birth, even my name, Nicole Marie. The difference, though, is on the lines where the doctor—clearly a hematheos doctor—filled in the names of the parents.

The father line is blank.

The mother line reads one word: Moirae.

The Fates.

11

“What did he—” Troy stands as I brush past him. “Nicole?”

My vision narrows to a small, foggy circle. I turn and head down the hall, heading . . . I don’t know where. Just out of here. Out of this building, out of this place that turned my world completely on its end.

As if finding out I’m adopted wasn’t bad enough.

“Nicole!” Troy shouts, jogging to catch up with me. “Hey.”

He dashes in front of me, spins around, and grabs my upper arms.

Whatever he sees on my face stuns him silent.

“What?” he asks. “What did Headmaster Petrolas tell you?”

I open my mouth, intent on telling him—intent on saying the words—but nothing comes out. My breath is gone; my brain is gone.

Without another word, Troy releases his grip on my arms and surrounds me in a big, tight hug. He pulls me close and I sink into him. I’ve never needed comfort more.

How do I wrap my mind around this? Daughter of the Fates—literal, direct daughter—what kind of cruel joke is that? Petrolas tried to explain it to me, tried to fill in the blanks left in the vague letter from my parents. Parents who aren’t really my parents.

Who are they, then?

He said the Moirae—the Fates—wanted a child of the world, a daughter more human than myth. And so they . . . created me. I’m a creation.

My breath catches and I make a kind of choking sound. That’s when I feel it—the moisture on my cheeks.