“Maybe,” he admitted. “But… you’re allowed to be a little selfish sometimes. And it’s not like you aren’t making huge sacrifices too.”

“I know. But if something really bad happens because of this, that’s gonna be pretty hard to live with.” She set her circlet gently on her nightstand and tugged out an itchy eyelash. “I just wish I knew why the Black Swan won’t tell me who my genetic parents are, you know? I’m not trying to gamble with people’s lives, but I’d like to not have mine get totally messed up either—especially without even understanding what’s really at stake.”

“I get that,” Keefe said quietly, “and… I actually have a theory about why the Black Swan won’t tell you—and it might even explain why Bronte got so pushy with you today.”

“Okay,” Sophie said when he didn’t continue. “Are you going to tell me?”

“I can. But… you’re not going to like it.”

“What else is new?” Sophie scooted back farther on her bed, deciding she might as well be surrounded by fluffy pillows if she had to get hit with bad news. She grabbed Ella, too, burying her face between her floppy ears. “Okay, what is it?”

Keefe stood up to pace, passing her enough times to seriously ramp up her anxiety.

“You’re making me wonder if suspense can actually kill me,” she warned.

“Sorry. I’m just trying to figure out how to do this without freaking you out like I did yesterday. Actually, wait.”

He hurried back to her bed and nestled into the pillows beside her, setting the blue notebook in his lap and pointing to her hand. “Turn your enhancing restrictors off. That way I can calm you down if you need me to.”

“It’s really that bad?” Sophie asked, tapping her thumbs and forefingers the way Tinker had shown her.

“I guess we’ll find out.” Keefe placed one of his hands near hers—without touching—and drummed his fingers against the front of the blue notebook with the other. “So… yesterday, I said I didn’t think your genetic parents would be people you know, because it would be too hard for them to pretend around you—and I might still be right about that. But. As I started trying to make lists of possible DNA donors, I realized the biggest clues we have are your abilities. I mean, yeah, it’s not always that telepathic parents have telepathic kids or whatever. Sometimes genetics decide to get funky and do their own thing. But it also happens consistently enough that it’s safe to assume your biological parents have at least some of your abilities. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“Sorta,” Sophie said. “I’ve always assumed one of my parents must be a Telepath.”

“That’s where I started out focusing too, since your telepathy is so strong, and it seemed fundamental to the Black Swan’s plans for you. But then I remembered that one of the few things we know for sure is that Mr. Forkle wanted you to be able to heal broken minds, since he knew there was a chance that could happen to some of the order. And to be able to do that, you need two abilities, right? Telepathy and…”

“Inflicting,” Sophie finished slowly.

He tapped the notebook harder. “Yeah… so I started thinking about how rare inflicting is.”

Sophie’s insides scrunched together.

He was right—she wasn’t going to like this.

“There’s only one other registered Inflictor,” she mumbled.

“I know.” Keefe scooted his hand even closer to hers—but still not quite touching. “And it’s someone whose whole life would be turned upside down if people found out he had a child. In fact, the news would pretty much turn everything upside down—at least for a little while. And it happens to be the same person who just gave you a big speech trying to convince you not to look into your genetic parents—even promising that the Council would stand beside you being unmatchable if it came to that. He basically said anything he could to get you to leave it alone.”

He stopped there, giving her a chance to leave the rest unspoken.

But there was no point hiding from it.

She reached for his hand, focusing on the soft blue breeze that rushed into her mind as she whispered, “You think Councillor Bronte is my biological father.”

ELEVEN

WE DON’T KNOW ANYTHING FOR certain,” Keefe reminded Sophie as she tightened her grip on his hand.

And she tried to believe him—tried to focus on the soothing colorful breezes he kept sending into her mind.

But her head was spinning in fifteen different directions. And the only thought that seemed to stick through all the chaos was: Seriously?

Out of all the people the Black Swan could’ve picked to be her biological father, they chose Councillor Bronte?

“It’s just a theory,” Keefe insisted.

“But it makes sense!” She honestly couldn’t believe she’d never suspected him before—and not just because of the Inflictor thing.

Maybe this was why Bronte had been so hard on her when she’d first met him.

Mr. Forkle had already admitted that the Black Swan had been forced to bring her to the Lost Cities earlier than they’d originally planned, because the Neverseen were getting too close to finding her. So what if Bronte had been trying to get her exiled because he wasn’t ready to deal with the fallout if people figured out that she was his daughter?

And what if he’d stepped up the meanness even more after she’d manifested as an Inflictor, because he thought it would keep people from suspecting any connection between them?

And maybe the reason he’d been so cruel when her abilities were “malfunctioning” was because he’d taken such a huge risk in order to make her an Inflictor—and then it was looking like it had all been for nothing.

None of that excused the awful things he’d said and done to her, of course—but she wasn’t trying to decide if Bronte was a good guy.

She was trying to decide if he was her biological father.

And… he had to be—didn’t he?

It even explained why he’d started being nicer once her abilities had been healed. Then Project Moonlark was back on track, and enough time had passed that he could relax a little without people suspecting him of anything.

Who knew? Maybe he’d even felt a little bad for treating his biological daughter so coldly—though that sounded mostly like wishful thinking.

“I… don’t know what to do with this information,” Sophie admitted, rubbing her left temple as she pictured Bronte’s face, trying to see herself in his sharp features.

She ended up with a mental image of herself with piercing blue eyes and huge, pointy ears—and a laugh bubbled up even as tears welled and her hands curled into fists, legs itching to run, hide—

“Easy there, Foster,” Keefe said, sending her more calming mental breezes.

The soft rushes of color whisked across her consciousness, soothing any raw nerves.

But for every wave of panic that Keefe’s winds were able to ease, there was another stronger surge ready in its wake.

“I get it—this is huge,” he told her, pulling her out of her pillow nest and spinning her to face him better. “But try to remember that even if it is true—and we don’t know if it is—it’s also not bad.”