“I’m well aware of its significance—and its implications. And that’s all the more reason to trust that the information is safe with me. You also have my word that it’s safe with anyone under my command.” The promise was made along with a grunt that sounded like maybe Sandor had kicked Bo to make sure he got the message. “And that’s true regardless of whether your suspicions turn out to be correct. I also agree with Mr. Sencen—and you know how much it pains me to say that. This is still only a theory—the kind of theory that absolutely must be proven before you decide what to do with the information. And for the record, I will be there when you confront Councillor Bronte—and I don’t recommend resorting to dramatics.”

“Aw, come on, Gigantor!” Ro whined. “How many times does a girl get a chance to stomp into a room and demand to know if someone’s her daddy? Bonus points if she can squeak out a few tears—and then follow it up with a face slap!” She let out a wistful sigh. “Should we also take bets on what the verdict’s going to be?”

“No bets!” Sandor ordered, stalking closer to Sophie and waiting for her to make eye contact. “I think it’s also important that you understand something very clearly, Miss Foster. If Bronte makes any threats during this confrontation—verbal or otherwise—I will subdue him. It won’t matter that he’s a Councillor and could cause diplomatic issues for me. My job is to protect you.”

Sophie tried to swallow, but a lump had lodged in her throat. “Bronte wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t he?” Sandor interrupted. “We both know the things he’s already put you through. And if this theory is true, it’s a secret he’s gone to great lengths to protect. There’s no telling what he’ll do if he fears exposure. In fact, I almost wish you’d go to Mr. Forkle for confirmation instead. He can’t inflict pain or threaten you with Exile.”

“Yeah, but he’s a way better liar,” Keefe argued. “And he won’t be nearly as caught off guard, since I’m sure he already assumes Foster’s looking into this. So his reaction would be much harder for me to gauge.”

“Bronte knows I’m looking into this too,” Sophie reminded Keefe.

“Yeah, but he won’t expect you to make progress this quickly. Plus, you’re supposed to check in with him all the time about your Regent stuff anyway, right? So if you call a meeting with him, it won’t seem nearly as suspicious as it would if you demanded another Forkle chat. The only trick will be coming up with a reason for why I’m there with you. Maybe we can say I want to make a case for joining Team Fancypants—”

“Team Valiant,” Sophie corrected.

He smirked. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m never gonna call it that. Just like I’m pretty sure you’re gonna have to get used to me calling you the Lovely Lady F.”

She tried to smile, glad he was back to his old, teasing self. But she knew her eyes didn’t sell it.

“Stick to the facts, Foster,” Keefe begged, taking her hand again and sending another soft breeze into her mind. “Remember, there’s still a good chance we’re wrong about all of this. Genetics are weird. Look at Dex. He’s a Technopath, and his mom’s a Froster, and his dad’s Talentless—and no, I don’t think that’s because his parents were a bad match. Marella’s parents were matchmaker-approved, and neither of them are Pyrokinetics like she is. So you and Bronte both being Inflictors might not mean what we think it means.”

“Exactly,” Ro said. “For the record, I’m totally on Team Not-the-Daddy.”

“You are?” Keefe asked.

“Yup! I’ve seen the dude, remember? I mean, personally I think all of you elves are scrawny and weird-looking—but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to tell which ones of you are technically ‘prettier’ by your elf-y standards. And Councillor Pointy Ears? Meh. No way his daughter could be our little blond hottie right here.”

“Unless she gets that from her mom,” Keefe reminded Ro, and part of Sophie’s brain wanted to wonder if that meant Keefe was agreeing with Ro’s “blond hottie” assessment—but that was definitely not something she needed to be thinking about at the moment.

Or ever.

“I know you’re trying to make me feel better,” she said, pausing for a much-needed eyelash tug. “But we all know what’s going to happen here. Bronte’s going to confirm that he’s my father. And then he’s going to beg me not to tell anyone and—”

“And then you’ll have to decide what you’re going to do,” Keefe jumped in. “That was the third fact I was getting to, before we were so rudely interrupted by my nosy bodyguard. You do have a choice here, Foster. I know you think outing Bronte will cause some epic, world-destroying scandal. And I’m not saying it won’t cause some temporary chaos while he steps down and there’s the election and stuff. But… Bronte’s not exactly winning the prize for Most Beloved Councillor, you know? I’m pretty sure most people aren’t going to be sad to see him go. And it’s not like we’ve never had a Councillor step aside because they wanted to get married or have kids or whatever.”

“Uh, that’s a little different than someone stepping aside because they secretly donated their DNA to an illegal experiment and then lied to everyone about it for years and years,” Sophie argued. “Think of how outspoken Bronte’s always been about the Black Swan—how many times he’s gone after them and tried to convince everyone that the Black Swan was the enemy. He even…”

“ ‘He even’ what?” Keefe asked when she fell very silent. “And what’s with the fresh blast of panic?”

He tried to send her more mental breezes, but Sophie yanked her hand back, needing a clear head to think through this new revelation.

This was the kind of thing she had to be really, really sure of.

“So. Remember what you said earlier about suspense killing you?” Keefe asked after a couple of minutes. “I think I might be getting there.”

“Same,” Sandor and Ro agreed.

“Sorry, it’s just… do you realize what this means?” Sophie whispered, afraid to give the words too much volume.

“Not yet, but we might, if you try actually explaining it,” Sandor suggested.

Sophie nodded, swallowing several times to pull together enough voice to tell them. “The Council was the one who ordered the memory break on Prentice when they were looking for me. And Bronte pretty much led that charge, didn’t he?”

“I think so,” Keefe agreed slowly. “I know he was definitely a big part of it.”

Sophie wrapped her arms around herself, needing that extra bit of support. “Right. So… if he was also secretly part of Project Moonlark… he basically forced Prentice to sacrifice himself for no reason. Or maybe he did it for show, to cover up his own involvement? Either way, that’s…”

There were no words for that level of ugliness.

And she might be biologically related to someone capable of it.

“Definitely not gonna argue with the disgust you’re feeling there,” Keefe told her, his face scrunched like he’d licked something sour. “If Bronte is your biological father, he has some serious explaining to do—but remember: That has nothing to do with you. I can give you the ‘our families don’t decide who we are’ speech again if you need me to. Also… in a weird way, this might be good news. I mean, not for Prentice or Wylie—or Alden, given how much that memory break messed him up too. But… it’d mean you wouldn’t have to feel bad about outing your connection to Bronte—because someone that heartless? They shouldn’t be a Councillor. In fact, he probably shouldn’t be anything except a prisoner in Exile. And I know you’re worried that any scandal will help the Neverseen discredit the Council—but not if we’re cleaning house. Not if we’re saying, ‘Ugh, this guy is creepy. Let’s change him out for someone we can actually trust.’ ”