The air in the garden of the Reeve’s Hall was crisp, smelling of damp moss and the first sweet blooms of a new spring. I stood by the stone sundial — a gift from the master carvers of Millhaven — and let the afternoon sun warm my face. My hands rested instinctively on the swell of my stomach, feeling the tiny thrum of a second heartbeat that was already harmonizing with my own.
A year ago, I had been a passenger in my own life. Now, the earth beneath my boots felt like it belonged to me, and I to it. I looked down at the golden seal on my palm. It was a comforting glow. The ring on my finger was a reminder of the day, three months after our arrival in Duskhollow, when the town square had been carpeted with white mountain flowers.
I could still see the image of Kaspar, standing at the a
