“Shhh,” Troy soothes. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

He has no idea.

I shake my head.

“It won’t be.”

I lean back, trying to pull myself out of the hug. Troy won’t let me go.

“Nothing will ever be okay again,” I say.

He tilts his head down, bringing his forehead so close to mine I can almost feel it. “Tell me.”

“I’m—”

I close my eyes, not able to say the words while looking in his eyes. I can’t stand the thought of seeing his pity or disgust.

It’s a struggle to even say the words.

“I am the daughter of . . . the Fates.”

To his credit, he doesn’t gasp or choke or any other completely reasonable reaction to that piece of news. I open my eyes and find him looking at me with a mix of awe and confusion.

Not exactly what I expected.

“Did you hear me?” I ask. “I’m the daughter—”

“Of the Fates,” he finishes. “Yeah, I heard. That’s . . .”

“Horrible?” I suggest, finally twisting myself out of his hug. “Freaky. Weird. Terrifying.”

“Cool,” he says with a half smile.

I scowl. “It’s not cool.”

He shrugs, as if totally confused by my reaction. “It’s still new. In time you’ll—”

“I’ll what?” I snap. “I’ll come to love them? To embrace my heritage? To get I Heart Fate tattooed across my chest?”

“Well, not quite that.”

“Troy, they made me,” I explain. “I’m not a normal girl.”

“I think we’ve always known that. I love you anyway.” His cheeks flame, and he starts stammering, “I mean we love you. Your friends. We all love you, even though you’re not normal.”

I punch him in the arm. “I have no father. Just three mothers who are in charge of the birth, life, and death of every person on the planet.”

“You really think that’s any weirder than me being the descendant of the god of medicine?” he asks. “Or Phoebe being Nike’s great-granddaughter?”

“Of course it is.”

“It’s not,” he says with a shrug. “Besides, at least you’re not really a descendant of Persephone.”

“No, but I’m—” I stop midsentence as his words sink in. “I’m not, am I?”

I can’t help the smile. Or the laugh that follows.

“You’re right,” I say between laughs. “I’m not! I’m really not.”

The idiot goddess isn’t my ancestor. Anything has to be better than that, right?

We erupt in a fit of laughter for several seconds. I think it’s more of a release than actual humor. I’ve had a lot to process in a short time—I can travel back in time and fix things, I’m adopted, my real parents are the Fates. Is it any wonder my brain needs to take a little vacation for a minute?