The trek back to her office was a gauntlet of surprised smiles, speculative stares and knowing winks from the newsroom staff. The communal reaction was galling, not to mention unwarranted. It wasn’t as if she were a nun, for heaven’s sake. True, men didn’t stop by to see her unannounced or unrelated to work, but for all anyone knew Hazard’s visit could have been business. And the fifteen dozen roses he brought her could have been . . . all right, maybe it was a stretch to expect anyone to believe the roses were strictly business. Still.

Peggy, a sweet, sixtyish secretary from Human Relations gave Eve’s elbow a squeeze as she passed. “Morning, Eve. Your new boyfriend is so handsome.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Well, whoever he is, I’ve got just four words for him: va, va, va, voom.”

Tiffany, assistant to a production assistant and nearly forty years Peggy’s junior, needed only three. “Hot. As. Hell.”

“Ditto,” agreed the young woman beside her who Eve seemed to recall worked in sales, one floor down and all the way over on the other side of the building. With a look of grudging admiration she added, “Men are suckers for you uptight, brainy types because they think you have a hidden wild side only they can unlock.”

While Eve considered whether to be flattered or offended, Tiffany growled, and the two women giggled wickedly.

Sobering, Tiffany crossed her arms to study Eve with a critical frown. “You should lose the glasses when he’s around, though. A little of that smart-girl look goes a long way.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Eve muttered. “Did you by any chance have time to find those transcripts I asked for?”

Tiffany shuffled some papers and came up with a folder. “Voila.”

“Thanks,” Eve said as she turned away. She was a few feet from her office when her phone started to ring, and she hurried to grab it.

“Eve Lockhart.”

“You’ve been holding out on me,” said a familiar voice.

“Hey, Jenna. What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the man who just left your office. Mr. Tall-Dark-I-Come-Bearing-Roses.”

“I don’t believe it. I know news travels fast, but you don’t even work in this building for pity’s sake.”

“Honey, how many times do I have to tell you that when it comes to romance Jenna sees all, knows all? Actually, I had to call over there to talk to Cindy in archives about some cuts I want to use from that piece on underage drinking you guys ran a while back, and she told me all about it. She said that Tiffany somebody-or-other put out the word that your mystery man strolled in like he owned the place and brought you a gazillion red roses.”

“Tiffany’s an airhead. It was nowhere near a gazillion.”

“Really? How many was it?”

Eve hesitated and then gave a resigned sigh. “Only one hundred and eighty.”

“Lordy. That’s close enough. Any particular significance to that number?”

“Long story.”

“I have time. Dish.”

“Can’t. I’m taping an interview with the dean of Newberry College at one, and we’re planning to shoot some walk-and-talk around campus first . . . which I still have to write script for. And before that I have to return calls and squeeze in a meeting with Angela.”

“Lucky you.”

Eve smiled at the way Jenna’s tone soured at the mention of her boss. Angela Beckett, the station’s straight-shooting, hard-driving and very glamorous news director was not on Jenna’s list of favorite people. Eve sensed the chill was mutual and that it had something to do with it being impossible for two larger-than-life personalities to hold center stage at the same time.

“Why don’t we have lunch sometime this week and I’ll fill you in?” By then she should be able to come up with a story that would satisfy Jenna’s craving for details without revealing too much of the actual truth.

Jenna sighed theatrically. “Oh, all right. But at least throw me a crumb to hold me till then. Who is he? Where did you meet? Is he really as young as he looks? Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“I honestly don’t know how old he is. And it doesn’t matter, becau—”

Jenna broke in. “I totally agree. In fact, I say the younger the better; that way they don’t have time to form any annoying bad habits. And besides, no one bats an eye when men date younger women. Turnabout’s fair play. Go, cougars. Hey, wouldn’t this make a great topic for my show? I can already hear the phones ringing off the hook. You could be my star guest!”

Eve winced at the thought. “What I was going to say was that his age doesn’t matter because this . . . thing is no big deal. Really. In fact, there is no thing. He’s just someone I met last night at the auction.”

“I knew it,” Jenna crowed. “As soon as Diane described him, I knew it had to be the same yummy guy who was checking you out last night. I was going to mention it to you, but you took off in such a hurry I didn’t have a chance. And speaking of, I still want to hear what gives with you and that necklace. I mean, good God, that was a lot of money. Anyway, when I saw him follow you out I thought to myself, hmmm. And now he shows up with a hundred and eighty roses. Hot damn, Eve.”

“Like I said, it’s no big deal.”

“If you say so.”

Eve could hear the grin in her friend’s sing-song tone. “I’ll check my schedule and get back to you about lunch. Try not to let your imagination run amok in the meantime.”

“Sorry, amok is my imagination’s natural habitat. As for lunch, sooner works for me.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Eve hesitated before saying good-bye. “Hey, Jenna, you’re a good judge of people. Would you describe me as brainy and uptight? Be honest.”

“Brainy as in smart and insightful? Yeah, that’s you all day. As for being uptight, well . . . ‘uptight’ is such a harsh word, with really negative connotations. If you think of it as being careful and highly structured, then I suppose some people might consider you a teensy, tiny bit uptight . . . in a charming sort of way,” she hastened to add.

“Charmingly uptight,” Eve muttered. “Terrific. I have to run.”

“Lunch. Soon. Don’t forget.”

There were more monitors inside the fishbowl, a half dozen of them mounted in a row close to the ceiling. At the moment they were all muted, but at regular intervals Angela scanned them, and Eve knew that if anything exploded, crashed or declared war anywhere in the known world, her boss would have the sound up in one heartbeat and a reporter working the story in two.

Angela was a master of the game of television news. The average tenure for a news director in a midsize market was eighteen months; Angela had been at WWRI for nearly three years and things were still rosy. Her arrival had been akin to tossing a live grenade into the studio. With management’s support, she’d overhauled the existing sets, played to the stations’ strength by focusing resources on local news, and defied convention by axing such formula relics as the one-two punch of running an attention-grabbing prime-time tease followed by the irritatingly coy “details at eleven.” Angela had little in common with average viewers, but she was shrewd enough to get them; she understood what interested them and what pissed them off, and she proceeded accordingly.

Initially, she and Eve were wary of each other. Eve didn’t want the new boss trying to clip her wings, and the new boss didn’t want Eve thinking longevity entitled her to coast. However, it didn’t take long for each of them to recognize a kindred spirit in the other. They were both ambitious, unafraid to take chances and willing to do whatever was necessary to get the job done right. On the personal side, neither of them had to balance her career with a husband and children. And neither of them lived with one eye on the next rung of the ladder, a rarity in the world of television journalism.

Most journalists and news directors were always looking ahead to the next job in the next biggest market, ready to pounce on any opening that would bring them more exposure and more money, with the ultimate prize of being tapped by one of the major networks. Eve had never viewed her job as a stepping stone. She’d always intended to stay put in Providence. In the beginning it was because Grand and Chloe and Rory were depending on her and she wanted to be there for them, even if it meant letting go of her own dreams. But as time went on she discovered other reasons to stay. Not that a fatter paycheck wouldn’t come in handy; Rory’s college tuition was right around the corner, and for all she knew there were other expensive family talismans to be rescued. But there were things that mattered more to her, personally and professionally.

Providence wasn’t simply her hometown; through the years and through her work it had also become an old friend, one with quirks and flaws along with all the things that made it shine, a friend with the power to make her laugh and make her cry. She knew Providence the way you came to know a cherished friend; she knew its hidden pleasures and its dark alleys and its secrets, and that gave her an invaluable edge as a journalist.

It was a perfect fit. Her home beat was big enough to continue to interest and challenge her professionally and small enough that she could see the effect her work had, small enough that every once in a while something she reported made a difference. Not a huge difference and maybe only a difference in a handful of lives, or even in just one life, but that was enough. Because when it happened, for just a little while, she felt like Superman, champion of the little guy, able to right wrongs and leap buildings in a single bound.

It was an amazing feeling, one most folks never got to experience and that even the most lucrative job offer couldn’t promise to deliver. And even if it could, she wouldn’t leave. She felt too strong a connection to the city; if she could do good through her work, she wanted to do it there.

It was the reason she’d become a journalist in the first place, to make a difference. Once, she’d dreamed of doing it on a grand scale. That wasn’t meant to be. But even if she wasn’t reporting from a war zone or famine-ravished country, she stilled needed to know that what she did mattered somewhere besides her bank balance, that she wasn’t simply marking time at WWRI or temporarily filling a space on a giant chessboard. If she felt an occasional stab of restlessness, a niggling sense that there was something else, something more she could be doing, or should be doing, she tried not to let it bother her. Most of the time, she was too busy for prolonged navel-gazing or soul-searching.

And her dedication had paid off. After years of honing her own style and approach to the news, she was no longer hostage to the daily assignment desk; instead, she was in charge of Special Projects, which meant freedom to enterprise her own ideas for longer, magazine-style stories that ran over several broadcasts and allowed for more nuanced coverage of a subject.

Practically speaking, she didn’t just head the Special Projects Department, she was the department, and that was just fine with her. She liked having control of every aspect of a story, from inception to broadcast. And she had free rein to tap whatever support staff and equipment she needed as long as she kept Angela up-to-date with what she was working on, brought the package in on time and continued to deliver in the all-important ratings department.

Today’s meeting was of the keep-Angela-up-to-date variety.

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” Angela said, with brisk nods of approval as she ran down Eve’s list of bullet points for a follow-up that was the biggest of several projects she had in the works. A year ago, fire had ripped through the top floor of a Newberry College dorm, claiming the lives of six students and leaving a dozen others seriously injured. Fire stories were something Eve usually avoided; that brand of pain and loss struck too close to home. But something about this story had drawn her in. Or rather, someone.

Freshman Allison Snow, one of the burn victims, also lost her twin sister, Cassidy, in the fire. She was struggling to survive an avalanche of trauma and grief and physical suffering that would crush most people when the fire marshall’s report delivered another blow. The report concluded that the fire had started when sparks from a frayed electrical cord ignited flammable decorations hanging nearby, decorations Allison had hung for a party that weekend. The revelation touched a deep personal chord in Eve and she’d been unable to turn away.

The first time they met, Allison was still hospitalized with second- and third-degree burns from face to knee on her left side. She was past the early stages of treatment, the agonizingly painful scrubbing and removal of dead tissue, but she still faced months of skin grafts and surgery and physical therapy, and then, in all likelihood, a lifetime of scars, physical and psychological, to remind her of that night. Eve was working on a series of reports on the aftermath of the fire, intended as a tribute to those who’d been lost and to show how the entire community had been touched by the tragedy. She started with the victims and their families, then the firefighters who’d saved lives and the doctors and nurses who’d worked around the clock to keep the injured alive, and she followed the ripples outward, through the Newberry faculty and student body, and finally to the community at large.

She wanted Allison and Cassidy’s story to be part of it; she wanted to give Allie a chance to memorialize her sister as only she could. But she made it clear from the start that it wasn’t her only reason for reaching out and that even if Allie never agreed to an interview, she would keep coming back. It was important to Eve that Allie know there was someone around who wouldn’t try to brush aside what she was feeling, someone in a position to understand in excruciating detail because she knew firsthand what it was like to be trapped inside that tangled web of grief and guilt and regret.

The instant she walked into the hospital room, Eve had recognized the look in the girl’s eyes. It was the same lost and haunted look she’d seen in her own eyes for years after the fire that killed her parents and laid waste to life as she’d known it. She knew that behind that look an endless loop of “what if?” and “if only” was running inside her head. She knew what a dark and lonely feeling it was to hold yourself responsible even when no one else did.

Angela finished reading Eve’s notes and looked up. “I like it. I especially like your idea of fading from clips of earlier interviews to new tape of the same subject. Have you been able to get in touch with everyone you spoke with last year?”

“Pretty much. One professor retired and moved to Florida, and a few kids have transferred to other schools. I have someone trying to get new contact info for them, but it’s nothing I can’t work around if I have to.”

“Good. I’ve checked out some of the raw tape you’ve logged. You’ve developed quite a rapport with Allison Snow.”

“Unfortunately, we have a lot in common.”

Angela nodded without comment. She knew a little about Eve’s background, but she wasn’t given to extraneous prying or sentiment and Eve blessed her for it.

“When do her bandages come off?” she asked Eve.

“Next week. She wants me to be there. For moral support.”

A gleam appeared in Angela’s dark eyes. “Any chance she’d let you bring along a photog?”

“I wouldn’t even ask.”

Her boss shrugged. “Just a thought.”

Eve sometimes thought that if Snow White had an evil twin, it would be Angela. She had the right look—wavy black hair, pale porcelain skin and ruby red lips—and, at least when it came to business, a heart of pure, calculating ice. And she’d made good use of all of it to get as far as she had on a playing field that still pretty much favored men. Angela didn’t pretend to be one of the boys. Far from it. Like Eve, she preferred to do things her way. In Angela’s case that meant wielding her femininity like any other weapon at her disposal, ruthlessly and with a style all her own. She dressed for the daily battle in defiantly girly colored suits, raspberry and lavender and lemon yellow, with jackets nipped at the waist and skirts that were straight and narrow, showing off a figure many younger women would covet. A hint of cleavage was not unheard of . . . but comfortable shoes definitely were. Comfort, her own and others, was not a priority for Angela.

“We really don’t need anything sensational to hype this anyway,” she assured Eve. “The latest viewer survey shows there’s still mega interest out there. I don’t want to sound . . . callous, but we really lucked out having the one-year anniversary fall during sweeps. We’ll tease it—tastefully—during every broadcast the week before. With any luck we’ll pull a forty share on at least a couple of nights.”

A forty share meant that forty percent of households in the viewing area were tuned in. Once that had been a fairly common occurrence, but with all the competition from cable networks and online news sites—including their own—pulling a forty these days was like hitting a grand slam. That made Angela’s expression of confidence even more significant, and Eve made a mental note to remember it when contract negotiations rolled around.

“Tell me more about this other idea,” Angela said, moving on. “What do pets have to do with finance and foreclosures?”

“Pets cost money. If you get laid off and have to cut expenses to the bone, pets sometimes have to go. Or if a family loses their home and has to crash with relatives for a while, the invitation might not include the family pooch or kitty and so they end up in a shelter. It was a volunteer at a local animal shelter who tipped me off to it. I made a few quick calls to other shelters and heard the same thing over and over; they’re filled to capacity—and beyond—and more animals arrive daily.”

“So do they . . . ?” She made a slicing motion across her throat.

Eve gave a grim nod. “Eventually. But most of them are trying to hold out as long as they can to give owners a chance to get settled somewhere and come back to claim them. It’s heartbreaking—these aren’t strays with health problems, three strikes against them and no place to go; they’re members of the family.”

“We had a little black poodle when I was a kid,” Angela recalled. “Mitzi. She chased the mailman until the post office threatened to cut off delivery if it didn’t stop, and whenever it thundered, she’d get nervous and throw up on our feet.” She sighed, as close to misty-eyed as Eve had ever seen her. “She was a real pain in the ass, but I still would have hated to have to give her away.”

Eve nodded. “Some shelters have started Foster Friend campaigns, asking for volunteers to help ease the overcrowding by taking in an animal—or two—on a temporary basis. Best-case scenario, the pets get reclaimed by their owners. Worst case, they get a few extra weeks, or months. And maybe, if they’re lucky, that’s enough time for their foster friend to fall in love with them and they get a new home.”

“Hmm. It has possibilities. And it’s sure as hell timely. Maybe we could spin it off the financial segment . . . give the C block a softer edge. Or maybe . . . maybe . . .” She paused, her gaze sliding past Eve to focus on the clear blue sky outside the window. Eve could almost hear the wheels turning inside Angela’s head. “Maybe we could do a version of the Tuesday’s Child spot, only instead of featuring a kid each week; we spotlight a pet in need of a foster home. We could get an existing advertiser to sponsor it . . . or better yet, pick up a new sponsor. One of those big pet-store chains would be perfect.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Eve told her. “Just getting the word out is bound to spur adoptions . . . and hopefully donations too.”

“And create good word of mouth for us,” added Angela, cutting to the heart of the matter from her standpoint. “I mean, who the hell doesn’t love snips and snails and puppy dog tails? This could be big. I say we toss it to Promotions and see what they come up with. Okay with you?”

Eve sort of nodded and murmured agreement. A second earlier she’d glanced at the monitors and her attention had been instantly shanghaied by the image on one of them. A square-jawed, sun-bronzed, tawny-haired man was being interviewed by the ladies of The View. And, judging by the fawning expressions on the faces of all four women, he was charming the pants off them. It was, she recalled, something he was very good at.

She couldn’t be sure how long she sat there, staring up at the screen, heart pounding, chest constricting, memories popping in her head like tulips in springtime. It finally penetrated that Angela was speaking. To her. And she managed to drag her attention away from the monitor. Slowly, as if freeing herself from mental quicksand.

“Hmm?”

“Friend of yours?” Angela inquired, the measured cadence of her words suggesting she’d asked once or twice already and wanted to make sure she got through this time. She supplied a visual aid by aiming a crimson-tipped finger at the monitor. “Nick Trevino. Is he a friend of yours?”

The sudden warming of her cheeks when his name was spoken out loud was enough to snap Eve back to full awareness. She had a feeling her face looked as ridiculously red hot as it felt, and was appropriately mortified.

Angela wanted to know if Nick was a friend of hers.

“Sort of. Maybe. A long time ago,” she stammered. “I mean, we went to school together. So, yeah, I know him . . . knew him. In school.”

God, now there was stammering to go along with the blushing; was she thirty-six or sixteen?

Angela eased back in her big leather chair, raised her perfect brows ever so slightly and said nothing. The silence was more unsettling than a string of questions. Eve recognized the technique; she’d used it herself hundreds of times during interviews. Let the silence stretch long enough and most people would grow uncomfortable and try to fill it, and in the process end up revealing more than they wanted to.

She checked her watch, stood abruptly and tugged on the hem of her sweater. “Wow, it’s later than I realized. I have to go. To do an interview. This time I am bringing along a photographer. Naturally. Since it’s for television.” She snatched the paper from the center of Angela’s desk. “Thanks for your input. I’ll just drop this off at Promotions on my way out.”

She went straight from the fishbowl to her own office and closed the door tightly behind her so she wouldn’t be interrupted. Her office didn’t have a row of monitors, only one perched on a file cabinet in the corner, but one was all she needed.

She quickly tuned in to The View. Good. The interview was still running. She backed up until she hit the chair at her desk and sank into it as she turned up the sound. She was curious to hear what Nick had to say, and irritated with herself for being curious and . . . something else. Something subtle.

The caption below his smiling face read, “Nicholas Trevino, Journalist, Author of When All Else Fails: Memoir of a Life Well-Traveled .”

Memoir. Give me a break, she thought, recalling that besides being charming, Nick Trevino—journalist, ex-friend, ex-lover, ex-fiancé—was also exactly one year, two months and six days older than she was. What kind of self-aggrandizing know-it-all writes a memoir before he even turns forty? The answer was obvious, and also irritating. The kind who led an adventurous, dangerous, fascinating, globe-trotting life as a famous and highly respected foreign correspondent. She supposed the fact that he looked and sounded like Indiana Jones’s smarter, braver, more dashing brother probably wouldn’t hurt book sales either.

Nick Trevino was living his dream, just as he always said he would. What bothered Eve was that he was also living hers.

Or maybe it would be more accurate to say he was living their dream, the dream they’d once shared, the dream they’d created together. She and Nick were working as summer interns in Washington when they met and clicked. They dated long distance until graduation, and then they both sought, and won, the prestigious Wyler Fellowship to study international journalism. Their plan was to finish grad school and then follow the story wherever it took them. They were ambitious and idealistic and in love. And they were certain—the kind of certain you can be only in your early twenties—they weren’t going to simply write about the world; they were going to change it.

They’d lay awake long into the night talking about marriage and forever and how they were going to make it work, no matter what. And about how, someday far, far away, after they’d seen everything and been everywhere, they would write a book about it. Together.

It was more than a dream for Eve; it was a chance for a fresh start, and she had never believed in or wanted anything so completely.

Then Chloe called with the news that she was pregnant. Eve remembered the drive back to New York to collect her things and how certain she’d been that Nick would understand her decision to return home. He hadn’t. She’d been certain he would get over his initial surprise and disappointment and remember their solemn vow to make it work, forever, no matter what. But that hadn’t happened either.

Nick stayed angry and she struggled to explain and they argued, long into several nights. The more they talked, the more it became all-about-Nick . . . about how his plans were being trashed and how inconvenient it would be for him not to have her around and how draining it would be to have to drive back and forth to Providence to see her. It was as if she and Chloe were nothing more than remote satellites revolving around planet Nick, useful only as long as they remained on course. But with all the debris flying around at the time, all those jagged pieces of her plans and her dreams and her heart, Eve didn’t see that clearly until much, much later.

Eventually Nick had cut off all discussion and issued an ultimatum: he needed her with him, and if she left, even for a year or two, if she put Chloe’s needs ahead of his, they were finished, done, kaput. And Eve, hurt and desperate not to see her dream disappear completely, had done the only thing that made sense to her at the time: she told him the truth.

She’d always intended to tell him, of course. She’d sworn not to follow in her mother’s misguided footsteps and spring it on him after they were already married. She’d simply been waiting for the perfect moment. That plan seemed to have blown up in her face, leaving her no choice but to tell him everything right then.

Everything. Complete and unvarnished and as totally preposterous sounding as she knew it was. She told him things she’d never told anyone, truths buried so deep it hurt to drag them up and say them out loud. She told him the reason she felt not simply obligated but honor bound to help Chloe in any way she could was because it was her fault their parents weren’t there to do it. She told him about the Winter Rose Spell and the candles and the fire. About blood magic and enchantresses and the time before time.

Nick had listened to it all, his expression impassive throughout, like a good journalist’s should be. And when she was finished, he told her he’d changed his mind and she could forget about the ultimatum. It was off the table. And then, before she had time to make the mistake of feeling relieved, he told her to pack her stuff and leave, because she was a liability he couldn’t afford.

He had to think about his future, he told her. If she was telling the truth, if magic was real, then she was like a time bomb that could at any moment detonate and destroy his credibility and reputation, and he wanted no part of it. And if it wasn’t real, then she was either lying or crazy, and he wanted no part of that. Either way, he wanted no part of her.

Looking up and seeing Nick on the monitor had been like a sudden, hard punch to her gut. Not because she still had tender feelings for him. She didn’t. Watching him on screen, hearing him talk about his recent marriage to a pretty young photographer who traveled with him and was clearly the maraschino cherry on top of his perfect life, the only thing Eve felt was grateful that whatever she and Nick shared had ended when it did.

For as long as she could remember she’d dreamed of sharing her life with a man who understood and accepted and loved everything about her. At fifteen she’d been so sure he was out there, somewhere, waiting for her just as impatiently as she was waiting for him, that she’d cast a spell to catch a glimpse of his face. That hadn’t ended well. Then along came Nick, breathing new life into her battered dreams, and in the end providing a glimpse of hard, cold reality. For the second time, magic won and she lost. Big time.

Eventually, as her heart slowly—very, very slowly—mended, she reconciled herself to the truth. That even if the man of her silly, romantic fantasies did exist, and they did someday, by some miracle, stumble across each other, there was no way she could ever know for certain it was him . . . not without getting closer and risking far more than she intended to ever again. And she needed to be certain. Before she opened her heart to a man again she needed to know he was the right man, the man destined to love her the way she longed to be loved. She wasn’t any more willing to settle for less now than she was at fifteen. Resigning herself to the truth was one thing; resigning herself to the wrong man was out of the question. And Nick Trevino had proven himself to be the wrong man.

As she watched Whoopi thank him and toss to commercial, she was suddenly able to put a name to the other, subtle feeling that had been tugging at her heart since she walked out of Angela’s office. Sadness. The kind of sadness you sometimes feel when looking at old photographs or reading old love letters.

Seeing Nick had sent her hurtling back to a time filled with endless possibilities and grand flights of fancy. But time is always moving and shifting to let you see things from a different perspective, whether you want to or not. She could see now that nothing in this life was truly endless, and that even the highest soaring flights eventually had to come back to earth and be grounded in something more solid than a young girl’s hopes and whimsy.

She wasn’t quite cynical enough to entirely rule out the possibility of finding love, or having it find her. She supposed it was still possible. She supposed anything was possible. But these days she was a much harder sell. It would require a pretty spectacular twist of fate for her to believe it was really meant to be, and she wasn’t counting on that happening or holding her breath waiting for it. And it certainly wasn’t the reason she refused to part with the pendant for any price.

She might not be entirely convinced it was as powerful a talisman as Grand claimed, or that it could change the family’s historically dismal record in finding true love, but the more she considered the possibility, the more she found herself wanting it to be true. Not for herself. She wanted it for Chloe and for Rory. She wanted them to have all the possibilities she’d lost or surrendered along the way. With all of her own heart, she wanted it to have enough magic to safeguard theirs.