“Not yet.” Logan inhaled a sharp breath. “But I will have to tell him. He must know the full extent of the danger he’s putting himself and his family in if he’s to agree to this. And … and he must know how valuable she is. I’ll try to keep an eye on her for as long as I can, but I’m not sure I will still be lucid enough to tell her the truth once she’s ready. It’s possible that responsibility will fall to him.”
It sounded so certain. So final. It dawned on Michelle how terrified Logan was of whatever was happening inside his own head.
Logan had always prided himself on his thinking mind. How horrible it must be to know he was losing it now.
His mouth quirked unexpectedly. “I will not take your pity now, Michelle. All my decisions have been my own, and I am still convinced that they were the right ones.”
“Of course they were,” she said. “You have changed the course of history.”
“Not yet. But someday, perhaps.” He rubbed his temple and glanced at the secret door that led down to Selene’s room. “How is she?”
“Much the same. Getting taller. She’s grown like a tadpole this year.”
He nodded. “I will need at least a week to complete the operations. We’ll have to conduct them in stages. Can you be ready in a month?”
A month. After so many years of nothing, nothing, nothing, it was so sudden, like a maglev train screeching toward her.
“I will have to send Scarlet away,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “Perhaps she can stay with her father for a while.”
Logan peered at her. She peered back and waited for him to ask. Scarlet. Who is Scarlet? Who is her father? Who is…?
He lowered his gaze first, and she couldn’t read him. She couldn’t tell if he guessed the truth or not. They were together for such a short time, and so long ago. There was no reason for him to suspect …
But he’d always been good at interpreting her silences.
He didn’t ask. Just nodded and said, “I will tell Garan to make his travel arrangements.”
*
It all seemed painfully familiar.
Scarlet’s anger had cooled somewhat during the maglev ride from Paris back to Toulouse, but she still had a furious knot in her stomach. She never wanted to see her lousy father again. She’d told herself as much when she’d run away the first time, back when she was seven, but this time she meant it. That drunken, arrogant, condescending jerk was nonexistent to her.
She couldn’t believe she’d agreed to stay with him for a whole month. Looking back, all of Grand-mère’s encouraging words about how it would be a good bonding opportunity and give her father a chance to see what a strong young woman she was becoming and blah blah blah—gag. Instead, all he’d done from the moment she’d arrived was pawn her off on his fawning “lady friends” while he left her for hours, only to come back stinking of cognac. And when he was around, he was criticizing her clothing choices, or blaming Grand-mère for filling her head with too many opinions, or accusing Scarlet of idolizing “the crazy old bat.”
That comment had been the last straw. The last straw ever.
After a ten-minute screaming fit, Scarlet had repacked her bag and stormed out of his apartment, slamming the door satisfyingly behind her. She’d headed straight to the train station. Her father hadn’t even tried to stop her, and she really didn’t care.
She’d lasted nine days.
She thought that was an impressive feat on its own.
She was going to the farm. To her grandmother. To her home.
The moment she stepped off the train and back onto the platform in Toulouse, the angry knot began to dissolve. She inhaled a long breath, looking forward to the familiar scent of hay and manure that had once been disgusting to her, but had developed into something comforting and almost pleasant. Soon she would be drinking a cup of thick, decadent hot chocolate while she vented all her frustrations to Grand-mère. Soon she would be snuggled under her favorite winter quilts, listening to the serene hoots of the barn owl that had taken up residence on the farm earlier that year.
This time, the ride in the taxi hover wasn’t full of anxiety. Every moment that passed, taking her farther away from Paris and her un-father, filled her with the tranquil, pleasant sensation of coming home. When the hover turned onto their narrow road and she spotted their house settled amid the snow drifts, the relief she felt nearly overwhelmed her.
Home.
She was out of the hover before it had come to a complete stop, launching herself over the gravel drive and yanking open the front door. But she had taken only a few steps into the entryway when she felt the silent stillness of the house.
She paused.
No clanging of pots in the kitchen. No creaking floorboards overhead. No familiar humming.
Her grandmother wasn’t here.
“Grand-mère?” she attempted anyway.
“Scarlet!”
She spun around, a grin bursting across her face. Her grandmother was rushing toward her across the drive, her face contorted in worry.
“I heard the hover pull up,” she said, panting for breath. “What are you doing here?”