Jesus. It occurs to me that it became a self-fulfilling prophecy for her. Killing Jamie to protect Callum, I can understand. Waiting silently for years for your manipulative half brother to get his just deserts is somewhat more chilling. “Please tell me you don’t see Carrie or me dying in strange circumstances.” I’m not entirely joking. Though of course it’s more likely that Fi has no more foreknowledge than an astrology chart, and is simply trying to make sense of the memories in her tangled brain as best she can . . . But at least one of my selves doesn’t believe that, can never believe that. Because I was there when the Manse expelled its fury on Jamie.

Fiona smiles. “I already told you. You and me are going to be great pals.”

“And Carrie?”

She looks down as if she’s fighting something, but when she looks up at me again, I see what’s inside her—the hope, the excitement, the fear. “I cannae see it. I dinnae think I’m meant to. You have to leap blindly into love.”

“Love makes a furnace of the soul,” I mutter. I’m thinking of Carrie, of Pete. Of Callum. The people I would jump into a fire for. The people I want to play a part in any life I fashion for myself now. Perhaps Fi will be one of those too, one day, though I’m still a little splintered where she’s concerned. Maybe I always will be.

“Aye, well. A wee bit melodramatic, but I cannae argue with it.” She pauses. “Ali wanted to come see you but he wasnae sure if he’d be welcome.”

“What? Why? Because of his mum?” She nods. “But that’s not his fault.”

“He feels guilty; he thinks he should have twigged. Especially with the fox.”

“Does he know why she—”

But Fiona is already shaking her head. “He thinks she was blaming your folks for the business going under, but she willnae talk about it.” She grimaces. “She’s going downhill pretty fast now.”

“Does Ali know I’m not pressing charges?” She nods again. “Tell him to come. Tell him . . . tell him we’re not our parents.” That’s not quite right; that’s not quite what I want to say. “Tell him I’d like him to come.”

•   •   •

The next day, Carrie arrives to drive me home from the hospital. Home. I don’t yet know if the Manse could ever feel like home after what happened there.

“It’s your sister,” says a cheery nurse, popping her head round the doorway of my room. I’m all packed up and sitting in a chair. The nurse surveys us both, in turn. “You two are nothing alike,” she marvels.

“We’re half sisters,” I say, and her face clears in understanding.