I smile. “And Papa was beside himself with worry. He was so overjoyed to see her return that he almost crushed us in his embrace.”

Isolde’s voice warms. “He picked you up and cradled you. They looked us both over, and they thought that we were both perfect.”

I imagine us as babies. I imagine myself perfect. Two wrinkly, chubby-cheeked infants with a lick of Papa’s dark hair, held up next to each other, right where we belonged.

“Papa didn’t know it before just then—he’d been too sleep-deprived—but as he held you, he realized that our family had been missing something. And you were the piece that made it whole.”

A lump forms in my throat, choking me as I try to swallow it down. Dewy tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I sit up and twist to meet my sister’s gaze. “Happy birthday, Isolde.”

She beams back at me. “Happy birthday, Seelie.”

A tear tracks down my face. I wipe it away, embarrassed. “Sorry. I just—”

I just miss them so much.

The words stick yet again.

“I know,” Isolde whispers, wrapping her hand around mine. “Me, too.”

My nose is running, and the tears are flowing freely now. I sniffle.

“Oh!” A goofy grin lights her face, promising something that will dry my tears—literally or figuratively, I’m not sure. “Here, wipe your eyes.” She digs out a silk handkerchief I’ve never seen before in my life from one of her pockets. “I’m pretty sure it was clean when I stole it.”

Laughing and crying at the same time, I accept the handkerchief and blot at my tears. “Isolde?”

She’s just crammed the last bite of cake into her mouth and set her plate to the side, licking honey off her fingers. “Hmmf?”

“Do you really think we can do it? Just...start over somewhere new, as a family?”

Everything about her transforms in an instant. She’s resolute now, as perfect and severe as a statue, staring off over my shoulder.

“Yes,” she says quietly, and this time she’s the one who won’t meet my eyes. She reaches for my hand. “Now, let me see.”

I reluctantly hold my palm up to her. The compass’s needle twitches as my hand wavers.

Isolde’s fingers trace over the design as her brows come together in the middle of her forehead. “We all touched it,” Isolde murmurs. “Why you?”

I tap my feet on the stair and don’t respond. I know it’ll only take her a moment to think of the one thing different between me and everyone else in that room.

“Oh.” Pause. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” I lie. It’s not pain, it’s just an uncomfortable awareness of something that’s not supposed to be there. I shake my head, not trusting the right words to come to the tip of my tongue. “No. No, it doesn’t hurt, I mean. Yes, I’m okay. It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt. I-it’s an enchanted compass, Isolde,” I stammer. “And maybe my magic took it—but I didn’t mean to. You know I wouldn’t.”