“Ask your father about Marguerite.” I repeated it, the name kept running through my mind. Marguerite.
I knew that name, I didn't know where at first, but the feeling was immediate. It was familiar in a way that made my stomach tighten.
I sat back down on the edge of the bed and read the note again. Marguerite.
My mother's name wasn't Marguerite, I knew that much, my mother's name had never been a mystery to me. I had seen it on documents, heard my father say it, and remembered it from the few things I had left from her.
So why did this name feel like something I had seen before? I closed my eyes, trying to remember, then came, the file, the suspicious file I had found while I was preparing to become Isabelle.
I had barely looked through it at the time. There had been so many documents
