She dressed, then studied her face in the mirror. Candlelight flattered, but … She laid her hands on her face and did a light glamour—something she’d had the talent for since puberty.

She often wondered if whatever spark she had depended more on vanity than real power.

That was fine with Lana. It didn’t shame her a bit to be or feel more pretty than powerful. Especially since whatever she had of each attracted a man like Max.

She started out, remembered the candles.

“Don’t leave them unattended,” she murmured, and turned back to put them out.

She stopped, considered. If she could light them, could she unlight them?

“It’s just the reverse, right?” Saying it, thinking it, she pointed at one, intended to walk over and try.

The flame died.

“Oh well … Wow.” She started to call Max, then realized he’d probably get wound up in it all, and they’d end up practicing and studying instead of having their quiet dinner at home.

Instead, she simply moved from candle to candle in her mind until the room fell dark. She couldn’t explain what she felt, or how that door Max spoke of had so suddenly opened.

Something to think about later, she decided.

She wanted that wine.

* * *

While Lana and Max enjoyed their wine—and an appetizer of melted Brie on toasted baguette slices Lana couldn’t stop herself from making—Katie MacLeod Parsoni rushed into a hospital in Brooklyn.

The tears hadn’t come yet because she didn’t believe, refused to believe, her father was dead, and her mother suddenly was so ill as to be in ICU.

With one hand pressed to her belly, her husband’s arm around her now nonexistent waist, she followed directions to the elevator that led to Intensive Care.

“This isn’t happening. It’s a mistake. I told you, I talked to her a few hours ago. Dad wasn’t feeling well—a cold or something—and she was making soup.”

She’d said the same thing over and over again on the drive to the hospital. Tony just kept his arm around her. “It’s going to be all right,” he said, as he could think of nothing else.

“It’s a mistake,” she repeated. But when they reached the nurse’s station, she couldn’t get a word out. Nothing came. She looked up helplessly at Tony.

“We were told Angie—Angela MacLeod was admitted. This is her daughter, Kathleen—my wife, Katie.”

“I need to see my mother. I need to see her.” Something in the nurse’s eyes had panic bubbling in Katie’s throat. “I need to see my mother! I want to talk to Dr. Hopman. She said—” And that Katie couldn’t say.

“Dr. Gerson’s treating your mother,” the nurse began.

“I don’t want to see Dr. Gerson. I want to see my mother! I want to talk to Dr. Hopman.”

“Come on now, Katie, come on. You’ve got to try to calm down. You’ve got to think of the babies.”

“I’m going to contact Dr. Hopman.” The nurse came around the desk. “Why don’t you wait over here, sit down while you wait. How far along are you?”

“Twenty-nine weeks, four days,” Tony said.

Now tears came, slow drops running. “You count the days, too,” Katie managed.

“Of course I do, honey. Sure I do. We’re having twins,” he told the nurse.

“What fun for you.” The nurse smiled, but her face went grave when she turned to walk back to the desk.

Rachel answered the page as soon as she could—and sized up the situation quickly when she saw the man and woman. She was about to have a grieving pregnant woman on her hands.

Still, she thought it better all around she’d gotten there ahead of Gerson. He was an excellent internist, but could be brusk to the point of rudeness.

The nurse on the desk gave Rachel the nod. Bracing herself, she walked over to the couple.

“I’m Dr. Hopman. I’m so sorry about your father.”

“It’s a mistake.”

“You’re Katie?”

“I’m Katie MacLeod Parsoni.”

“Katie,” Rachel said and sat. “We did all we could. Your mother did all she could. She called for help, and got him to us as quickly as possible. But he was too ill.”

Katie’s eyes, the same dark green as her mother’s, clung to Rachel’s. Pleaded. “He had a cold. Some little bug. My mother was making him chicken soup.”

“Your mother was able to give us a little information. They were in Scotland? But you didn’t travel with them?”

“I’m on modified bed rest.”

“Twins,” Tony said. “Twenty-nine weeks, four days.”

“Can you tell me where in Scotland?”

“In Dumfries. What does it matter? Where’s my mother? I need to see my mother.”

“She’s in isolation.”

“What does that mean!”

Rachel shifted, her gaze as calm and steady as her voice. “It’s a precaution, Katie. If she and your father contracted an infection, or one passed it to the other, we have to guard against contagion. I can let you see her for a few minutes, but you need to be prepared. She’s very ill. You’ll need to wear a mask and gloves and a protective gown.”

“I don’t care what I have to wear, I need to see my mother.”

“You won’t be able to touch her,” Rachel added. “And you can only see her for a few minutes.”

“I’m going with my wife.”

“All right. First, I need you to tell me everything you can about their time in Scotland. Your mother said they only got back today, and had been there since the day after Christmas. Do you know if your father was ill before they left?”

“No, no, he was fine. We had Christmas. We always go to the farm the day after. We all go, but I couldn’t because I can’t travel right now.”

“Did you speak to them while they were gone?”

“Of course. Almost every day. I’m telling you they were fine. You can ask Uncle Rob—my father’s twin brother. They were all there, and they were fine. You can ask him. He’s in London.”

“Can you give me his contact number?”

“I’ll do that.” Tony gripped Katie’s hand. “I’ve got all that, and I’ll give you whatever you need. But Katie needs to see her mom.”

Once the family members were gowned and gloved, Rachel did what she could to prepare them.

“Your mother’s being treated for dehydration. She’s running a high fever, and we’re working on bringing that down.” She paused outside the room with its glass wall, a fine-boned woman with what would have been an explosion of black curls had they not been clamped ruthlessly back. Fatigue dogged her deep chocolate eyes, but her tone remained brisk.

“The plastic curtaining is to protect against infections.”

All Katie could do was stare through the glass, through the film of the plastic inside the room, to the woman in the narrow hospital bed.

Like a husk of my mother, she thought.

“I just talked to her. I just talked to her.”

She gripped Tony’s hand, stepped inside.

Monitors beeped. Green squiggles and spikes ran across the screens. Some sort of fan hummed like a swarm of wasps. Over it all she heard her mother’s rasping breaths.

“Mom,” she said, but Angie didn’t stir. “Is she sedated?”

“No.”

Katie cleared her throat, spoke louder, clearer. “Mom, it’s Katie. Mom.”

Angie stirred, moaned. “Tired, so tired. Make the soup. Sick day, we’ll have a sick day. Mommy, I want my lambie jammies. Can’t go to school today.”

“Mom, it’s Katie.”

“Katie, Katie.” On the pillow, Angie’s head turned right, left, right, left. “Mommy says Katie, bar the door. Bar the door, Katie.” Angie’s eyes fluttered open, and her fever-bright gaze rolled around the room. “Don’t let it come in. Do you hear it, rustling in the bushes? Katie, bar the door!”

“Don’t worry, Mom. Don’t worry.”

“Do you see the crows? All the crows circling.”