A secret...

Taught me how to be a mother again...

A baby crying...

“I didn’t say she was going to have a baby.” Archer pins me with a look. “She had a baby. She carried and gave birth to your brother in secret a little over a month ago. Had anyone known, she would have been forced to give the child to a childless family.”

I reel, my mind trying to make sense of everything being thrown at me. I have a brother...

Women are usually sterilized a year after giving birth to their first—and only—child. Time to ensure the baby survives infancy. My mom could have healed. There are always rare cases...

I have a brother!

“Your father found out this morning,” Archer continues. “He’s requested a meeting with his ML.”

“No way.” I’ll die before my brother is used. I head for the house.

Archer latches on to my wrist. “I’ll go ahead of you. In spirit. I’ll clear the way.”

“You’d better hurry.”

He nods and a second later, his Shell goes still.

I look to Deacon. “Don’t let Killian inside the house.”

“Lass—”

I turn and stare at him, willing him to understand. “I’m kicking Archer out as soon as I reach my mom. I have to do this on my own.”

Silence.

When he gives a stiff nod of his own, I take off. I’m a bundle of raw, exposed nerves as I fly inside the house, up the stairs, past the walls decorated with my mother’s artwork. Her paintings are famous all over the world. But these are paintings of...me? I slow. Yes, me. My face has replaced the abstracts. Me as an infant. Me as a preteen. Me as a teenager. Even pictures of me at the asylum.

Ten. Hurry.

Archer’s voice fills my head. Right. He’s invisible, and whatever he’s doing to distract the maids is working. They turn away from me just before I pass, allowing me to reach my mother’s bedroom without incident.

The door is locked, but that hardly matters for Archer.

Try it now, he says.

I do, the knob hot enough to blister. He must have used his light and melted the tumbler inside the lock.

I burst inside the room. There’s a human-size lump on the bed, motionless, a crib in place of the nightstand and a woman—not my mother—in a rocking chair beside it. The woman gasps when she sees me, clutching the baby she’s holding tight against her chest.

“You must be Ten,” she says, sounding relieved. She stands. “I’m Maggie, and I’m very happy you’re here.” Her hair is fully gray, and her features are heavily lined, her jaw offset by jowls. But her eyes...they sparkle like freshly polished emeralds. “You’re as pretty as your pictures.”

I don’t know her. I don’t trust her.

I step forward, almost challenging.

“I’m an old friend of your grandmother’s. Knew your mother when she was a little girl.” She smiles a sad smile and pulls the blanket from the infant’s face. He’s sleeping, his eyes closed. “Would you like to meet your brother?”

My stomach clenches, and for a moment, I’m unable to catch my breath. “What’s his name?” The words are whispered. I don’t want to wake him.

“Jeremy Eleven Lockwood.”

I almost smile. Eleven. In the periodic table, group eleven consists of the three coinage metals: silver, copper and gold. Eleven is the first double digit of the same number. Often thought to represent balance.

Jeremy Eleven is...not pretty. Patches of hair have fallen from his scalp. His cheeks are sunken in, his lips swollen and tinged with blue. My hand shakes as I reach out. I brush my fingertip over the softness of his knuckles, and he opens his fist to latch weakly on to my finger.

If love at first sight is possible, I’m already head over heels. “What’s wrong with him?” I ask, still whispering.

Tears well in her eyes. “Your mother didn’t know she’d been poisoned until after she’d fed him. She...”

She must be devastated, is probably eaten up with guilt. But she didn’t do this. A monster did. Someone who places no value on Firstlife.

Bile burns my throat, and I struggle to retain my composure.

A moan rises from the bed. “Ten?” My name is nothing but a gasp, barely audible.

I meet my mother’s gaze, and there’s no stopping my gasp of horror. To me, it feels as though we sat across from each other in Vans’s office only hours ago. She looked good then, if pale. She looked normal. Now her cheeks are hollow, and her eyes sunken. Her skin is sallow and paper-thin. Like Jeremy, her lips are cracked and tinged with blue.

As though in a trance, I glide to her side and sink to my knees. She moves at a snail’s pace, but eventually manages to reach up and clasp my hand. Her grip is shockingly weak, even considering the way she looks.

“My baby girl,” she says. “They couldn’t break you. I’m so glad.”

A cluster of thorns sprout in my throat. “I’m sorry, Momma. So sorry for—”

“You have nothing to apologize—” A cough racks her body, blood spraying from her mouth.

“Shh. The past is over and done. Save your strength.” Seeing her like this...whatever anger I still harbored evaporates, leaving only the love I have for her. I suffered because of the choices she made, but so did she. Regret is etched into every line of her skin.

A tear trickles from the corner of her eye. “I never should have...pushed you...should have let you...choose.” She taps the spot just over her heart. “Let Jeremy...choose. Let him. He’s your dad’s... Didn’t know I could...pregnant again. Think he fed... Lifeblood. Healed me. Had mistress...just in case.”

She jumps from one point to another, but I’m able to keep up. When Jeremy dies, his spirit will be up for grabs. I can’t let my dad choose for him. “Archer,” I croak.

I’ll stay with him. I’ll escort him into Troika, and when he reaches the Age of Accountability, I’ll allow him to choose without interference. You have my word.

“Archer?” Momma asks.

“A friend,” I tell her, and it’s the absolute truth.

“Friend...good...such a good girl...love you...scribe.”

I’m not sure she knows what she’s saying anymore. I gently trace my fingers over her cheek. “Rest now, all right? We’ll talk when you wake up.” Please, wake up.

Her panicked gaze lands on Maggie. “Scribe.”

“I’ll give it to her, Grace,” the old woman says. “Don’t you worry.”

The reassurance calms her, and she closes her eyes. I watch her chest for a telltale rise and fall of breath—holding my own until...yes. She hasn’t slipped away.

Maggie places Jeremy in the crib and pulls a small black device from her pocket. Another flash-scribe. She hands it to me and I press my thumb on the center.

Her voice fills the room. “My dearest Ten. I can never express my regret for all the horrors you’ve endured. Because of my mistakes! Because I allowed bitterness to harden my heart when Troika failed to save my parents. Or so I thought. My mother visited me, you know. In a Shell. She was granted permission and she explained the truth. The fault was hers. I think I finally understand what you shouted at me so many times. Our choices direct our path.”