Instead, I drove past the library to the small parking lot behind the eastern residential building. I didn’t spend much time here, and couldn’t bring myself to think of the empty apartment as home. It felt like a larger version of the place I’d had during grad school, only without the Escher prints or the Renaissance festival swords hanging on the walls. Once inside, I started up the coffee machine, turned the television on for Smudge, and headed for the shower.

Between the cold water and the hot coffee, I got my brain jump-started enough to sit down and log on to my computer. I ignored several interview requests from the media and used my access as Research Director to pull up Alexis Vainio’s medical folder.

The patient summary described the results of the accident in clinical terms, but I could never read it without hearing my father’s voice. He had been the one to call me that night. I’d just gotten back from dinner, and it was raining outside, a hard-core Michigan storm with raindrops big enough to bruise.

I remembered him spitting profanity like bullets, as if he could ward off the grief with anger. “God damned drunk ran the fucking stop sign. Angie and Lex are both in the hospital. Your brother’s with them. Your mom and I are driving down tonight. The doctors say Angie should be all right. They don’t . . . they don’t fucking know if Lex . . .”

It was the only time I could recall hearing him cry.

I’d flown down as soon as I could. I stayed with them, brought Toby food at the hospital, took care of the house and their pet lizard, and did everything I could to help . . . except to use magic.

Magic would have triggered a visit from Gutenberg and his automatons. The accident was public knowledge, as were the injuries Lex had suffered. If I healed her, there was no way to explain her sudden and miraculous recovery. My magic would have put myself and the Porters at risk of exposure, and Gutenberg was enough of a bastard to do whatever it took to preserve his secrets.

I could restore my niece’s amputated leg, and Gutenberg would simply remove it again. There was nothing I could do.

At least, that was what I told myself.

I closed my eyes, remembering the letter Toby had written last year after learning what I was.

Do you know what it’s like trying to explain to your five-year-old daughter that if we don’t let the doctors cut off her leg, the infection will kill her? Or to know that even the amputation might not save her?