The nightmare always starts the same way.

  Anne stands in the meadow, Liant's blood soaking into her skirts. Charlotte wails in her arms. The rose scar pulses on the baby's chest—angry, infected, wrong.

  Then the scene shifts. Charlotte is older—five, maybe six. She reaches for Anne, smiling. But when Anne tries to touch her, lightning crackles from Charlotte's fingers. The girl's golden eyes go wide with horror as Anne's skin blisters and burns.

  "I'm sorry, Mama," Charlotte whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

  Anne jerks awake, gasping. Sweat plasters her nightgown to her skin. Beside her, Scott stirs but doesn't wake.

  She slips from bed and pads to the window. Outside, the Scottish hills roll away into darkness. Somewhere out there, Charlotte is growing up without her. Ten years old now. Does she know about magic yet? Does she understand what she is?

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Does she hate Anne for abandoning her?

  A soft cry comes from the nursery.

  Anne crosses the hall and lifts baby Finn from his cradle. He's three months old, with Scott's dark hair and her green eyes. She settles into the rocking chair and begins to nurse him, humming softly.

  Finn's tiny hand curls around her finger. So perfect. So innocent.

  And magical.

  She'd felt it the moment he was born—that telltale hum of power in his blood. Not strong like Charlotte's had been, but present. Undeniable.

  Which meant she'd have to tell Scott everything.

  The thought makes her stomach clench. She'd kept her past hidden for so long, terrified that speaking of it would somehow draw Garka's attention. But Finn would need training eventually. Protection. And Scott deserved to know what he'd married into.

  Tomorrow, she decides. Tomorrow she'd tell him.

  Finn finishes nursing and dozes against her shoulder. Anne holds him close, breathing in his baby smell, and tries not to think about the daughter she'd never hold again.