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not an option. Something’s wrong with the magic,” said Dominic. “It’s not typical for an Arc’s powers to come through this way. But we’re seeing it more and more, with children much younger than the girl lyin’ on that bed.”
    “Her name is Constance Grey.” I gave the words a faint edge. “She’s Verity’s little sister.”
    “We know exactly who she is,” snapped Orla.
    “Point is, when you remade the lines, something changed. The magic is stronger. More wild, like it’s lashing out. It’s putting our people in danger.” Dominic looked at me, clearly troubled.
    “You think it’s my fault?”
    “Easy,” Luc murmured. He’d been strangely silent, and now he was taking their side? I pulled my hand from his.
    “Fault’s a strong word,” Dominic hedged. “We think you can fix whatever’s gone wrong.”
    “I don’t know what’s wrong. I fixed the lines, like you wanted. That was the prophecy, right? Remake the lines, stop the Torrent, save the world. And I did.” There had been a moment, caught up in the pandemonium of the Torrent, that I’d understood everything. I’d grasped the true nature of the magic, saw the underpinnings of the world. Once Luc had pulled me out, the knowledge had burned away like fog on a sunny morning. But one fact remained clear. “The lines were balanced. They were whole. Everything should be okay.”
    Pascal spoke. “The issue resides within the magic itself, not the lines. You’re the only person we know of who has encountered raw magic and lived. It follows that you’d be the only one who could fix it.”
    Logical, sure. But there was no guarantee that I’d survive a second go-round.
    “It’s endangering everyone,” Dominic added. “Spells and workings are turnin’ destructive without warning. Children younger than Constance are getting their powers. You know what would have happened if Luc hadn’t pulled you two out? That school would have fallen down around your ears. Darklings would have come. They’re getting stronger, you know. Every time the raw magic overflows, the Darklings are on it like a hound after a fox.”
    I shuddered before I could stop myself. Darklings. The assassins who had killed Verity. Nightmare creatures, impossibly fast and strong, willing to devour anyone who stood between them and a feast of raw magic. I flashed back to the memory of a curving, bone white talon gleaming with blood, reaching for me.
    “You caused this,” Orla said. “Now you need to fix it. And we are wasting time by arguing.”
    Fear bloomed inside me, turning my skin slick, and I fought to keep the tremor out of my voice. “I have school. And work. I have ... a life. You can’t expect me to abandon it.”
    All three of the Quartoren stared at me. It was obvious that was exactly what they expected. I looked at Luc, waiting for him to tell his father it wouldn’t work, that I couldn’t help, that they had the wrong girl. Again. But he kept his eyes fixed on the patchy grass at our feet.
    “We need your assistance,” Pascal said eventually. “Without you, it’s unlikely we can find a solution.”
    “Your solution sounds a lot like you’re throwing me under the bus. And I’m sorry if there are problems now, but I didn’t cause them. I fixed the magic. Now I need to fix my own life.”
    Orla scoffed. “You’re so fond of your Flat life? You’d place it above the needs of our entire people? Then take the girl back with you.” She raised her chin and addressed the others. “She is descended from Flats and a traitor, and my House wants no part of her.”
    “Let’s not say things we don’t mean,” Dominic cut in.
    “I mean every word,” Orla said. “The House of Rafale will not claim the girl. I’ll have no business with the Flat, no matter that she is the Vessel. We’ll find another way.”
    She turned on her heel and stalked a short distance away, cane thumping into the ground. She was surprisingly fast for an old woman. Dominic