SOPHIE SCOOTED BACK her chair, needing room to breathe.
There’d been a time when she’d wondered if Mr. Forkle could be her real father, but somewhere along the way she’d shoved the thought out of her mind. She couldn’t imagine her real father would experiment on her, or abandon her as many times as he had—not to mention looking her in the eye every time he saw her and never saying anything.
“You?” she asked Mr. Forkle. “All this time it was you?”
A pucker pressed between his brows. Then understanding dawned. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“Who does she think he is?” Biana asked as Fitz snatched Sophie’s forms.
His jaw fell. “He’s . . . her father.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then why would you list yourself as family?” Fitz asked.
“Because I am family. My name is the one on her Inception Certificate. Someone had to vouch for her existence. And since her genetic parents couldn’t reveal themselves, I took the responsibility. Though of course I had to use an assumed identity. But Mr. Forkle is still me.”
“Why the secrecy?” Della asked. “Can’t she know her family?”
Granite and Mr. Forkle shared a look.
“Someday you may understand,” Mr. Forkle told Sophie. “But for now I can at least assure you—as I did with your concerns about Jolie—that I am not your genetic father.”
Keefe grabbed Mr. Forkle’s wrist. “He’s telling the truth. And . . . he actually feels kinda bad about it.”
“Of course I do! Project Moonlark may have been unconventional. But I am your family. And you are mine.”
His voice cracked as he said the last sentence, and he turned away, wiping his eyes.
Was he . . . crying?
I’m aware of the offenses you hold against me, he transmitted. And I won’t claim I don’t deserve them. But I need you to know that I do care about you, Sophie—as much as I can allow myself to. And you may not want to believe this, but your genetic parents care too. They have incredibly important reasons for remaining anonymous—but that does not mean they don’t wish they could be a part of your life.
Have I ever met them? Sophie transmitted back.
I can’t tell you that—and I’m begging you to stop guessing. Should you finally settle on the correct answer, you will trigger a chain reaction that could topple our world.
How would me knowing who they are “topple” anything? Unless . . .
A new idea emerged—one far more heartbreaking than any of her other theories.
Mr. Forkle sighed. I can tell you’re still pondering possibilities. So I will add that your genetic parents had no connection to each other. There was no unrequited love. They weren’t even friends. I did that purposely, because I couldn’t allow them to know who each other were.
But they do know I’m their daughter? Sophie asked.
Yes. And that truly is the last I can say.
His voice went silent in her mind, but her head was still reeling with her new theory. What he’d told her ruled out half of it—but not the most heartbreaking part.
Her father still could be . . .
She couldn’t bear to think the name.
But he was a Telepath. And he’d always been incredibly kind to her. And it would explain why he’d given her his cache . . .
“Okay, you guys are doing that staring into each other’s eyes thing,” Keefe said, “and it’s a lot creepier when it’s Sophorkle.”
Mr. Forkle looked away, drying his eyes. “So . . . are we good?”
Sophie nodded. “I guess everyone has a few crazy family members they’d don’t know what to do with. You’ll be mine.”
Granite cracked up at that.
Fitz handed her back her Exillium papers, and Sophie studied Mr. Forkle’s name.
“Errol?” she asked.
“It’s a good strong name,” he agreed.
“You do realize your initials spell ELF, right?” Keefe asked.
“Of course. I couldn’t resist, once I knew my surname would start with an F.”
“How did you choose ‘Forkle’?” Della asked.
“Somewhat randomly. I was looking for a word that was memorable, but not too complicated, and I wanted the meaning to bear some sort of logic. Forkle is close to the word for ‘disguise’ in Norwegian, a part of the human world I’ve always been partial to, so it seemed the best fit—though strangely, I believe it also means ‘apron.’ Ah, the quirks of human languages.”
“What does the L stand for?” Dex asked.
Mr. Forkle looked slightly flushed as he mumbled, “Loki.”