“Dad?” Her voice was creaky, the word sticking in her mouth like it was coated with tar.

Jennet thought she’d heard him, his voice taut with panic. And later—crying? What was going on?

She couldn’t open her eyes. And then she could, the lashes parting gummily. Unfamiliar white walls surrounded her, and the antiseptic smell hit her nose the same time her brain registered hospital.

What was she doing lying in a hospital bed?

An IV fed into her left arm, and she was dressed in a dun-colored gown. The gridded lights overhead made her want to close her eyes again, but she had to figure out what was going on.

“Dad?” she called again, fear lending her voice a wavery strength.

The door opened and a blue-smocked nurse bustled in, her hair tied neatly back.

“Awake at last,” she said. “And how are you feeling?”

“I really don’t know.” Jennet took a deep breath. Nothing hurt, but her throat was blazingly parched. “Could I get some water?”

The nurse nodded. “I’ll be right back. But if you need anything else, press the call button.”

“I need my dad.”

“Contacting him is the first thing on my list.” The nurse gave her an encouraging smile and left, closing the door softly.

Jennet stared around the room. There was a big vase of hydrangeas—blue and purple and green—the only real spot of color in the place. Thick white curtains were drawn over the window, the light a bright smear behind.

The door flew open, and her dad rushed in. His hair was rumpled and he looked exhausted, but as soon as he saw her, a smile transformed his face.

“Jen! Oh, honey.”

He caught her up in a hug, careful of the tubes stuck in her arm, and Jennet clung to him. He smelled like sunshine and safety.

“I’m here, Dad.”

“I know.” His voice was thick with emotion. “The docs say they want another day of observation, and then they’ll let you come home. I can’t believe I didn’t realize you had walking pneumonia—I’m so sorry.”

“I did?” She didn’t remember being sick.

What she did remember was the Dark Queen taking her mortal essence—but that must have been a dream. Right? She had been feverishly ill, after all. The strange, hollow feeling in her chest was just an after-effect of her illness; nothing more.

“We’re through it now,” her dad said. Tears lurked in his eyes. “Let me get some light in here.”

He went to the window and pulled back the curtain. Afternoon sun poured into the room, as though it had just been waiting for an invitation. The branches of a tree were visible from the bed, dark green leaves moving gently in the breeze below the cloud-spotted sky.

Returning to the bedside, her dad sat and took her hand.

“I have some bad news,” he said, his voice strained. “It’s… I don’t know how to tell you this, but—Thomas is dead.”

“What?” She clutched his hand, her mind buzzing in circles. “How could he be? What happened?”

Dad shook his head. “He died at home, the doctors think from a stroke. It was fast, and probably painless.”

Tears choked her throat. “But I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

“None of us did.” Her dad blinked, hard, but a drop of moisture still rolled down one cheek. “I’m so sorry to have to break this to you while you’re still in the hospital, but I thought you’d want to know right away.”

Jennet pressed her lips together and nodded. She couldn’t quite believe that Thomas was gone.

“The funeral is the day after tomorrow. You’ll be home by then.” Her dad leaned forward again and wrapped her in a tight hug. “I love you,” he said against her hair.

“I love you too, Dad.” She hugged him awkwardly back, mindful of the IV.

She felt cold and empty inside, but at least she was alive, and with her dad. Thomas’s death was horrible—but she and Dad had gone through worse and come out the other side.

Not perfectly, no, but who ever made it through life without a few scars?