Gentle dabs of something wet and cold on my forehead feels at once beautiful and terrible. My muscles accept the cold like a dying fish needing water, but my skin nearly hurts, almost like a dirt rash at the featherlight touch.

I peel open my eyes, finding myself in the fluffy bed at Hans’ estate, once again getting their white sheets dirty. Momma sits at my bedside, her eyes creased and red-rimmed from crying.

Ahhh, heck. What’d I do now?

I open my mouth, but only a croak emerges. My body quivers when I try to move, protesting like a sea anemone. Those things don't like to move and will sting you if you try. Don't ask how I know.

Momma props me up, pouring a cup of warm liquid down my throat. It tastes of lavender and chamomile sweetened with honey and a bitter aftertaste of white willow bark.

"Hans told me what happened." I groan. Would face planting into the covers hurt? Probably. But it'd be worth it to avoid her eyes.

"It's just the kefier fever," I whisper, throat hoarse and scratchy.

Her eyebrows lower a hair and she stares at me. "Do you think I'd not know the difference between when you're sick and when your soul sick? This ain't the fever, hon."

And her stare says she expects me to expound on her unspoken question.

I lean back on the pillows, taking as deep a breath as the black hole in my soul will allow. My Gift, when I reach out and gently touch it, is furious. A fury that nearly overtakes all other furies. But, perhaps, because it’s a part of me… I feel the hurt the fury covers. The trust that was broken. And the heartache.

Shoot. It really is alive, like Rose.

I sigh, puffing out a breath and feeling my skin break out into a cold sweat as my body shivers at the short contact with the Gift.

"I kinda betrayed my Gift and it’s mad at me."

I glance over at Momma… and she’s not at all surprised. Instead, she purses her lips to hold in a smile. Not at all the reaction I was expecting.

"Then ask her to forgive you. I’ve found most Gifts are decently reasonable when given an explanation."

My jaw drops.

"Close your mouth, sweetie. Wouldn’t want your soul to escape," she says lightly, pushing up my chin. I work my tongue around my dry, cracking lips.

"Mom—what?"

She leans over, once again brushing the cold rag along my forehead, a tenderness in her eyes. "Since I was not Gifted, your father and I hoped perhaps you children would not be. It runs in families, but your father was especially strong. He… what he could do ran him into trouble, and we didn’t want such burdens placed on our children."

A harsh bark escapes my mouth. "Then you get me, searching for trouble as if it were my middle name."

She grins, and it reaches her eyes, warming the sorrow there and making them sparkle like they used to when I was a kid. "Indeed, you little rascal. It had come to my mind that you were Gifted, but by then… I didn’t know how to tell you about your father. I had hoped you would stay innocent of all this for a while longer. Preferably your entire life." She looks out the window, and I see the lines on her face, the haggard set of her lips, and the way a tear bristles at the corner of her eye.

"Why?" I should be angry she kept it from me… but I trust my mother, and I know she wouldn’t do such a thing without good reason.

She glances back at me, swiping away the tear before it fell. "Hmm?"

"Why didn’t you tell us?"

She leans back in her chair, blowing out a breath of air. "Your father and I promised to protect you and your siblings. When we met… your father was a lost soul. He had just returned from war in which he lost his dragon. He nearly didn’t have the will to go on—" Kinda like if I lost Ran? I shudder even thinking about such a thing "—but he was still the one who would make a child smile when the kid was having a bad day. He would bring joy to the party by being the court jester. And he would go out of his way to make a maid feel safe." Momma blows out a breath, a sad smile creasing her face as she looks far into the past. "He was a kind soul with a lovely heart that had been damaged by all he had seen. We didn’t want that for you."

"And so, by keeping it from us, you tried to protect us?" I ask, scrunching up my face.

Her eyes snap back to me. But she relaxes when she sees only confusion on my face and no anger. "It was likely the wrong way, mind you. But we tried. It was why we were so far out in the woods. Your father still had responsibilities, but he thought we could hide from them out here. And for a while, it worked."

"And would likely have continued to work, if not for me."

Her kind smile brings a warmth to my soul my Gift tries to send running.

"Aria—hon, no. This is not your fault. Don’t blame yourself for what I did. I kept this from you, seeking to protect you and your siblings, yes, but it was something that weighed my soul. I knew I should’ve told you, but how do you tell a child they are possibly endowed with the same Gifts of the father—which lead to his death?" She sucks in a breath, messaging her forehead.

I reach out a hand and touch her arm. Her eyes pop open and she grabs my hand, a tiny smile coming to her face. "But The King gave me the best, most understanding daughter, even if she does nearly kills her mother’s heart." Her forehead wrinkles in thought and her lips pinch down in a frown. "But hon, there will be those who take advantage of your kind heart. Don’t be so forgiving that you miss those who seek to control you."

I crack a smile, and she squeezes my hand. "I know, Momma. I know. Life ain’t easy, but it’s just a matter of taking one step forward at a time. But about Pa’s dragon… did he ever mention anything about water dragons?"

She narrows her eyes. "What did you do?"

I wince. "I—erm—might’ve met one?"

She takes a deep breath, mentally counting back from ten. I can see it in the way her jaw ticks and her knuckles bleach white on the hand that is holding the chair arm, although she’s careful not to squeeze my hand too hard. "Lord, give me patience." I crack a wry smile. She wags a finger at me without opening her eyes. "Don’t you dare laugh, Aria Rosen."

I stifle the chuckle in my chest, turning it into a cough.

Her blue eyes are calm and collected when they open, but her knuckles are still bone white on the chair. "From the beginning. Now," she barks.

I gulp, the humor gone. This is Warrior Mother. The same one who helped me take out miscreant criminals before all this went down with La'Maciago and can throw knives better than anyone I’ve ever met.

Speaking of… I need to get better at knife throwing.

The knife competition is coming next, after the next few days of balls and celebrations—which I will probably need to go to—and a regal feast all commoners may attend in order to celebrate the trials.

But first--apologize to the Gift. Right.

But I have to mean it. Because if I don't, it's gonna freeze me like an icecap.

I'm in trouble.