“One last thing,” I said, touching her gently around the face. Phoebe winced as though my touch was searing.

“Did I hurt you?” I withdrew my hands immediately. “I was just making sure that, if you cry, the tears will appear clear rather than red.”

“Phoebe is quite sensitive,” Freyja explained.

“And we haven’t done the full range of tests to determine those sensitivities.” Miriam shook her head. “This is not a good idea, Marcus.”

“Do you forbid me from taking her to the hospital?” Marcus asked.

“You know me better than that,” Miriam retorted. She turned to Phoebe. “This is your decision.”

Phoebe was out the door in a flash, Françoise on her heels.

“We’ll be in touch,” Marcus said, following her.

* * *

—

MATTHEW WAS IN THE HALL with Edward’s chart when we arrived at the hospital. A flock of physicians and nurses were in conference nearby. Through the door, I could see Padma and Stella sitting by Edward, who was connected to machines that monitored his heart and helped with his breathing.

“How is he?” I asked, putting my hand on Matthew’s arm.

“His condition is critical but stable,” Matthew said, closing the chart. “They’re doing everything possible. Where’s Phoebe?”

“On her way with Marcus and Françoise,” I replied. “We thought it would be better if I came ahead, in case . . .”

Matthew nodded. “They’re discussing surgical options now.”

The elevator doors opened. Phoebe was inside, with Marcus on her right and Françoise on her left. She was wearing dark glasses, her hair dull instead of glossy, and she appeared to be wrapped in an unflattering olive drab coat.

“Disguising spell,” I murmured to Matthew. “A heavy one.”

“Phoebe,” Matthew said as she approached.

“Where’s my dad?” Phoebe’s eyes were streaming with tears. Thankfully, they left nothing but wet traces on her cheeks.

“In here. Your mother and sister are with him,” Matthew said.

“Is he . . .” Phoebe searched Matthew’s face, unable to finish her sentence.

“He’s in critical condition, but stable,” Matthew replied. “His heart sustained considerable damage. They’re discussing surgery now.”

Phoebe took a shuddering breath.

“Are you ready to go in?” Marcus asked gently.

“I don’t know.” Phoebe was gripping Marcus’s hand with such power that it became mottled with bruises, from blue to purple to green. She looked at Marcus in panic. “What if Miriam is right? What if I can’t handle this?”

“I’ll be with you,” Marcus said, trying to reassure her. “So will Françoise and Diana. And Matthew is here, too.”

Phoebe gave a shaky nod. “Don’t let go.”

“Never,” Marcus promised.

Padma’s tearful face looked up as we entered. Stella rushed toward her sister.

“He’s dying!” Stella’s features were swollen with tears, her eyes red and raw. “Do something!”

“That’s enough, Stella.” Padma’s voice was shaky.

“No. She can make this better. Fix him, Phoebe!” Stella was distraught. “He’s too young to die.”

The fast approach of a warmblood—sister or no sister—was more than any young vampire could handle. Phoebe’s lips curled into a snarl.

Matthew whisked Stella out the door. She was still begging for somebody—anybody—to do something for her father.

With Stella out of the way, Phoebe was able to regain control. She searched for her father amid the machines that were keeping him alive.

“Oh, Mum.”

“I know, Phoebe.” Padma patted the empty seat next to her. “Come and sit with me. Talk to him. He’s missed you so these last few months.”

Marcus guided Phoebe to the chair. He cast a long look at Padma as if to make sure that she was bearing up under the strain.

“This is my fault, isn’t it?” Phoebe whispered. “I knew he wasn’t feeling well. But I just wanted to be married before—before—”

“Your father’s heart has been weak for years, Phoebe,” Padma said, tears welling up. “This has nothing to do with your decision.”

“But the stress,” Phoebe said, turning to her mother. “He never wanted me to become a vampire. We argued over and over about it.”

“There’s no point in second-guessing yourself, or engaging in magical thinking—that if only we hadn’t gone to Mumbai for that vacation, then your father wouldn’t have caught that virus, or he should have retired sooner and had a proper rest like the doctor wanted,” Padma replied.

“Your mother is right, Phoebe. I knew as soon as I met him that Edward’s heart was fragile, and that he wasn’t taking good enough care of himself. Remember? We talked about this.” Marcus waited for his mate’s response.

Reluctantly, Phoebe nodded.

“You are in no way responsible for the choices your father made in his life,” Padma said. “You’re here now. Don’t waste this precious time. Tell him you love him.”

Phoebe reached over and took her father’s hand.

“Hey, Dad,” she said, sniffing back her tears. “It’s me. Phoebe. Marcus is here, too.”

Her father lay unconscious and unresponsive. Phoebe’s mother gave her other hand an encouraging squeeze.

“Miriam and Freyja think I’m doing well, with, you know, the change.” Phoebe wiped at her eyes and gave a shaky laugh. “I grew a whole inch. You know how much I hoped for some more height. I’ve started dancing again. And painting.”

Phoebe’s father had always wanted her to go back to sketching and painting. He still had one of her teenage attempts, a portrait of her mother in the garden, hanging in his office at home.

“That’s wonderful, Phoebe,” Padma said. “I’m happy for you.”

“I’m still not very good,” Phoebe said, not wanting her mother to get her hopes up. “I’m just a vampire, not Van Gogh.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Padma said.

“Perhaps,” Phoebe said. Taking credit was Stella’s department.

“I don’t think you have to be worried about being bored during de Clermont family gatherings, Dad,” Phoebe continued. Her father wasn’t responding to her small talk, but she felt as if he was listening and liked to hear about her life. He always had, no matter how minor the event or insignificant the concern. “Freyja and Miriam tell the most amazing stories. It’s like living with a pair of Scheherazades.”

Before she could say anything else, Phoebe was distracted by Stella’s conversation with the doctors out in the corridor.

“What do you mean he needs surgery?” Stella demanded.

“Is something wrong?” Padma asked Phoebe, noticing her wandering attention.

“They can save him,” Stella told the doctors. Through the window, Phoebe saw her point to her and Marcus. “They can give him their blood, and it will all be fine.”

“Your father doesn’t need blood,” one of them replied. “Of course, if we do surgery—”

“No, you don’t understand,” Stella cried. “Their blood can save him!”

“Let me talk to her,” Matthew said. “She’s in shock.” He took Stella by the elbow and steered her away from the doctors and into their father’s room.

“I can’t save Edward,” Matthew said. “I’m sorry, Stella. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Why not?” Stella demanded. She turned on Phoebe. “You do it, then. Or are you too selfish to share your good fortune with the rest of us?”

One of Edward’s machines made a high-pitched sound, then another. Medical personnel flooded into the room, reading machines, having urgent conversations, and checking Edward’s vitals. Marcus drew Phoebe into the corner, where she would not be in the way.