Then it came to her, the splash of a memory. Nana had handed the Shaes their packs and pushed them toward the door.

“I’m separating you,” she had said, tongue darting out to lick her plump lips. “Are you afraid?”

“Separating?” Vel shrieked. “You can’t do that. They’ll die!”

“By pair, Vel.” She had rolled her eyes, her squared pupils tumbling like dice. “You’ll be with James, Umbrella with Scratch. I’ll take your fear. Your confusion. And if anything blooms, I’ll take that, too.”

“Blooms?” Scratch asked. “What do you mean, blooms?”

Nana grinned, wide and inscrutable. “You’re both two days from the gate. You’re welcome for that. You’ll meet each other there.”

Scratch, realizing quickly that there was no negotiation, no time to think, reached for James’s hand. “You good?”

“I suppose I have to be. But I’ll—”

And then there was darkness.

“Is your pack here?” Scratch felt around and sighed in relief when her hand hit familiar cloth. “Are you all right?”

“I saw your dream,” Brella murmured, a bit green.

Scratch’s stomach liquefied into icy slush. “You did?”

Brella took in a ragged breath as she sat, brushing leaves from her face. “I guess it’s the blood bond. I didn’t mean to. I tried to wake up when I realized what I was seeing.”

“It’s all right. Not your fault.” The memory was sharp-edged, razors of shame and anger poking through the threads of it. She had been weak then, at the mercy of a miserable woman. Had Brella seen the contempt in Purpose’s eyes when she glared at her daughter? Did Brella know how unlovable Scratch had been before she reworked herself into something worthwhile? Scratch had the urge to scream. That isn’t me anymore! I don’t even have the same name.

Brella swallowed, a loud gulp in the quiet forest. “If I’d have known . . .”

“It’s fine.” It was like a poking. Phantom fingertips on her most soft, secret places. She didn’t want to see Brella’s face, afraid of what she would find there. Pity, she imagined. Pity for her weakness, and maybe delicate words after. Coddling, horrific tenderness. And she’d take it, because, even though she hated the thought, she wanted it. A desperate, scraping bit of her needed it, and the needing was shameful. She’d betray herself, and her weakness would be discovered.

Please, don’t pity me. Please, please.

There was no pity on Brella’s face. It was flushed dark, her freckles disappearing into the rising color. Her eyes shone bright. Her mouth was a small, fierce knot, mirroring the tangle between her drawn eyebrows. She breathed shallowly and loud.

“You’re angry,” Scratch mumbled, swallowing the mad urge to laugh.

“Mm,” Brella grunted. “Mm.”

“You’re angry at . . . my mother?”

“Mm.” Her nostrils flared. Her jaw worked.

“It was a long time ago, Brella.”