There had to be more.
There had to be.
I couldn’t just be a random person picked because I was born on the right calendar date. That couldn’t be the whole story.
What about my mother? What about the secret she had whispered to me on my fifteenth birthday—one year before Eloise had died? She had been dying then herself, her voice thin but determined. I have a secret, about the day you were born…
What about George Lachlan’s letter? The only thing it had said was: I’m sorry.
Sorry for what? He hadn’t just picked a birthday out of a hat. He hadn’t just chosen some girl at random.
There had to be more.
And yet, I could still hear Luca’s words circling my brain like vultures: You’re the glass ballerina—or the knife.
Maybe both.
“I’m sorry,” Julian said suddenly beside me. His voice was
