Questions answered with more questions. The fey were irritating, and he was the worst of all. I stared down at my hands, at the golden marks painted across my knuckles. Were they really still there, or were they only a reflection of what I wanted to be?

No, I decided. They were there. I could still feel her – a whisper of presence in my mind.

“There are worlds beyond count for you to explore, and yet you’d waste your time watching this mortal life?” he asked. “Why?”

“Because it is my life,” I whispered, forcing the vines to grow apart so that I could see once more.

Cécile remained on the farm in the care of her family and Sabine, her cheeks regaining their color even as her stomach took on a noticeable curve. Visitors came and went. Tips, whom Aiden had taken on as an advisor, came often, keeping her informed of the developments of the Isle as though she were queen. Marie and Zoé, whom Aiden was now courting, arrived with bolts of silk and velvet from the continent, regaling her with gossip from the city. Chris, who had returned to his father’s farm, took her riding often. And when she grew too large to do so comfortably, on carriage rides up and down the coast, Souris sitting at their feet. Everyone came together for her eighteenth birthday, the farmhouse filled to the brim with those who loved her.

For all of them, she smiled.

For all of them, she laughed.

For all of them, she pretended.

Only when she was alone, in the darkest hours of the night, did she unleash the hurt, curling in on herself. Soaking the pillow with tears. Muffling her sobs with a quilt. Every time it tore me apart, filled me fury, and sent me in pursuit of my uncle, where I begged, pleaded, and raged that he allow me to go back.

The answer was always the same.

Childbirth was not easy for her. Two days of pain, Sabine and Josette’s eyes filled with the fear that they would lose her, the marks on my fingers tarnishing and blackening at the tips as she labored and bled.

Then our son was born.

From the lands of endless summer, I watched the arrival of this small half-blood boy who would never know me, but whom I already loved above all things. So caught up was I in examining his perfect little features, that at first I didn’t feel the flux of power as a portal formed between our two worlds. Noticed only when the room filled with a warm glow and my uncle stepped into the room.

Cécile lost her mind, throwing herself from the blood soaked bed and crawling between him and our child. “You cannot have him, too,” she screamed. “You cannot take him.”