Every year, Myrskyjärvi International School for the Magically Gifted celebrates Kekri with a dance. We honor the ancient harvest traditions by serving up a huge buffet complete with reindeer meat and way too much dessert. Everyone stuffs their faces because the food at Kekri is actually good and not at all like what they serve in the cafeteria.

At midnight on Kekri eve, Mom gives a speech and burns the buck—the one we’ve spent hours making. After that, the Pebbles go back to Kivitalo for hot chocolate while the older kids stay for the real party. Mr. Fotsios cranks up the sound system and everyone dances until the early hours of the morning, shoulder to shoulder with the occasional ghost who manages to cross over when the veil between worlds is thinnest.

This year, Kekri isn’t going to be like that.

This year, I dress in black, my heart heavy as lead.

“Are you ready?” Mom asks when I pad into the kitchen.

“As I’ll ever be.”

All my shock and fear has been replaced by anger. Anger at my parents, at Toivo and MacCrone, and especially at Emmi. We could’ve saved more lives if someone had listened to me from the start, if they’d bothered to believe me about the liekkiö.

“I know it’s going to be difficult for you,” Mom says. “It’s difficult for all of us. I just hope you know how proud we are of you, and how sorry we are.”

Mom’s words wash over me, snagging on the prickle of thorns I feel pushing through my skin. I don’t want her apologies. Apologies aren’t going to bring anyone back from the dead.

“What you did, all of it,” Dad says. “That took real courage.” He pulls me into a hug, and I wish my thorns were real, so he’d feel some of the pain I do. “You truly are remarkable,” he adds.

“Because now I have magic?” Guess I’m finally lovable.

“No. That’s not it at all.” Mom eases me out of Dad’s hug. “Look at me, Taika.”

I don’t.

She tucks her fingers under my chin and lifts my face until we make eye contact.

“Magic doesn’t make the person. Never forget that. You have always been amazing, and I have always loved you. I admit I made mistakes.” She sucks in a breath. “I don’t expect you to understand or to forgive me for what I said. I was scared, I was trying to keep you safe, and I’m sorry. I should’ve listened. I should’ve tried to understand you better.”

Are these words really coming out of my mom’s mouth? I never expected her to apologize and now that she has, I’m not sure what to do.

“It’s okay, Mom.”