Hope was sick.

  Anne pressed a hand to her daughter's forehead, feeling the fever's heat. "Scott! I need you!"

  Scott appeared in the doorway, face pale. "How bad?"

  "Bad. We need to get her to the doctor."

  As Scott hurried out to hitch the wagon, Anne looked down at Hope's flushed face. Beside her, Garett sat on the bed, holding his twin's hand.

  "Is Hope gonna die?"

  "No, baby. She's going to be fine." Anne tried to sound confident, but fear clawed at her chest.

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  One simple healing spell. Something even a weak witch like her could manage. It would take seconds.

  But using magic would leave a trace. And if Garka's people were watching...

  Anne's hands trembled as she placed a cool cloth on Hope's forehead. Her daughter whimpered.

  Just one spell. She's your daughter.

  But Charlotte was her daughter too. And using magic could lead Garka straight to her.

  This was the choice she'd made ten years ago—to protect Charlotte at any cost.

  Even if that cost was Hope.

  "Scott!" Anne's voice cracked. "Hurry!"

  They got Hope to the doctor in time. Pneumonia. Serious, but treatable with medicine and rest.

  Anne sat by her daughter's bedside that night, holding her small hand, hating herself.

  She could have healed Hope instantly. Could have taken away her pain with a single spell.

  But she hadn't.

  Anne pressed her face into her hands and wept.