It turned out that "manor" wasn't really a fair word for the Merlyn home. The Merlyn Disaster would have been more accurate. Or Nightmare, maybe. It was definitely not in the same class as the glass-clad house on the hill, that was for sure.

At the look on my face, Reggie gave me another rare smile. "It's not to everyone's taste," he said. He sounded downright gleeful.

It was a Victorian home, just as the online article had promised. Three stories, set in the middle of a clearing that didn't look nearly as clear as I expected it had once upon a time. A window on the second floor of the manor had been boarded up, making the place appear to me like a one-eyed old man. Shingles had flown off the roof; I saw several frozen in snowbanks nearby. A wraparound porch with sagging steps and peeling paint awaited our entrance. It was a sad facsimile of the estate I'd seen in my visions, but there was no question that it was the same place.

"Watch yourself," Reggie said as he took the steps carefully. He didn't offer his hand this time. I was grateful.

I paused on the second step, and went still.

Come find me, Uncle Reggie, a little girl called. The yard was transformed before my eyes: snow gone, green grass and leafy trees in its place. A blond girl peered at me from behind a lush elm tree in the front yard, a tire swing suspended from its branches.

Lucy – that was the little girl. Another of the six I'd been seeing since childhood. And now, incredibly, I was sure I knew where she came from.

A hand on my shoulder jerked me back to the present. I flinched, pulling away from Reggie before he could speak. He studied me in silence, forehead furrowed.

"I didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't," I said, a defensive edge creeping into my voice. "I just don't like to be touched, that's all."

"My apologies. They're waiting for us."

The snow was back, the day grayer than it had seemed moments before. I forced myself back to the present, noting for the first time that an attractive man likely in his early fifties stood waiting for us, dressed in Dockers and a sport coat.

"You must be tired," he said. "I'm Quentin – Quentin Lance. We spoke on the phone. Come in. We've been expecting you."

I expected the inside of the house to be as bad off as the exterior, but I was wrong. The floral wallpaper was faded but in good condition, the wood floors recently polished. Antique sconces on the wall lit the way as I followed Quentin down the corridor. The house was warm and alive, and smelled faintly of gingerbread.

"When did you say my par—" I paused, uncertain, "—uh, Moira and Robert passed away?"

"A week ago tomorrow," Quentin said.

"And they lived out here?"

"No," Reggie said flatly. "Moira inherited the house from our parents. She and Robert lived here for several years, but they chose to close it up some time ago."

"So, no one lives here? It doesn't feel like an empty house. How long has it been since Moira and Robert left?"

"They moved just after Lu—" Quentin began. Reggie cut him off before he could continue.

"About twenty-five years. Roughly."

"The house has been empty for two and a half decades?"

"Not completely," Quentin said. "Thanks to the family legacy, the manor is a historical landmark. We have a caretaker who looks in on things regularly, and in the past several months Moira and Robert began taking on smaller renovation projects inside. I'm afraid the exterior has suffered from the disuse, however."

I thought of the shingles in the snowbank, the peeling paint and sagging porch, and silently agreed.

I followed Quentin and Reggie down another shadowed corridor, this one lined with formal portraits and dark, mournful New England landscapes that must have been painted by various descendants of the Merlyn line. I paused at one of the portraits, this one of a blond with predatory green eyes and a smile that was uncomfortably seductive for a girl who couldn't have been more than twelve. She was nude from the waist up, sheets bunched around her waist, her stare bold as she gazed at the painter.

How much longer, Daddy, Rose asked. I was in a bedroom, suddenly – the bedroom from the painting, seated on a four-poster bed in a room gone cold despite a fire blazing in the fireplace a few feet away.

The more you ask, the longer it takes. You moved again – head back, a quarter of an inch. I stared at a man with wild dark hair and angry brows, his gaze intent on his canvas. He stood a few feet away, powerfully built and larger than life. Rose moved her head back, and I felt the pinch in my own spine and a gnawing in my stomach.

I shook my head and jerked myself out of the vision, back to the real world. In front of me, Rose stared with a storm in her familiar green eyes. Suddenly, I paused. Was that a blemish on the painting itself, or had the artist intended to paint the mark on the girl's neck?

My hand flew to the same spot on my own throat, covered by my jacket at the moment. Quentin and Reggie both regarded me curiously.

Quentin paused alongside me. "That's—"

"Rose," I said quietly. He looked at me in surprise. "I read about the family," I said, fumbling for an explanation. "Online. There's a lot of information on the Merlyns out there."

"Oh," he said, though he still looked a little taken aback. "Of course. Yes." He paused, then nodded toward the painting. "The resemblance is eerie. Between you and Rose, I mean. I thought it the second I saw you."

Reggie sniffed derisively, but made no comment.

"Who was she?" I asked. "I mean… I know she was Rose. But, in relation to the family?"

"Rose Merlyn. Your…aunt, several generations back I think. Daughter of Byron Merlyn, and one of his most famous early models," Quentin said, pausing to sort out the family line in his head. He sounded sad just saying the name. A chill ran through me.

My friends call me Rosie, a voice whispered in my head. I saw the dark-haired man I always saw. Grinning, one side of his mouth tipped in a lopsided smile. Do they now? he said.

I pushed the images, the voices, far away. Quentin was still talking, but I was aware of Reggie watching me with narrowed eyes. I tried to focus once more on Quentin's words.

"It was a tragedy," he was saying. "A real tragedy. No one got over her running away like that – at least, not from the stories my father told."

"Your father?" I asked, seizing on just one of a dozen points to question.

"Quentin's family has been with us for years," Reggie said. "His grandfather was one of the stable boys for Byron Merlyn's prize quarter horses at the turn of the twentieth century."

"And now you're the family lawyer," I said. Quentin caught my eye, and I thought I saw a faint flush to his cheeks.

"I didn't start out that way. I was a cop for twenty years, then got injured in the line of duty. Your grandmother helped put me through law school. She was a good lady."

My grandmother. The idea made me dizzy. A day ago, all these familial roles had been nothing to me. I'd imagined aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents, based on favorite movies; books I'd loved when I was little.

Now, suddenly, here they were. All the blank faces I'd wondered about, obsessed over, now filled.

"We should get in there," Reggie said. He caught my elbow to hurry me along, but released it immediately when I backed away. "Apologies," he said, half under his breath. "Just come on, then."

I followed him.

The dining room was as elegant as the rest of the house. A crystal chandelier hovered above the space, while a long oak table and ten elaborate carved dining chairs dominated the room. Across from it, I admired an expertly crafted Shaker sideboard and pie chest. The Antiques Roadshow has been one of my favorite shows since I was placed with a foster family of appraisers when I was ten. The placement was short-lived – they were too freaked out by my voices and visions to keep me, but my obsession with all things old since then served me well now.

I paused at the door to take in the other members of the family I was about to meet. There was a handsome dark-haired man with striking blue eyes, likely about the same age as Quentin. He sat beside another good-looking dark-haired man, this one about half his age, and a striking girl with auburn hair and the clean lines of a model. She was younger than everyone else here, probably still in her teens. Then, my attention was drawn to a fourth person in the room, who couldn't have looked less suited to the place. He had dark blond hair shorn buzzcut-short and striking blue eyes that took me in with unwavering attention. His shoulders were broad, something formidable about his physical presence even while he was seated.

"I know you've been waiting a while," Quentin began, addressing the others in the room. He moved to touch my elbow, remembered himself, and let his hand fall. "This is Felicity Smoak. Moira and Robert's daughter."

No one moved. No one spoke. Quentin looked at me apologetically, but before he could say anything more, a newcomer entered the room. She was small and fine-boned, mid-forties, with wavy red hair pulled back in a braid and warm green eyes. She had an efficient way about her that set me at ease the second she stepped toward me, her hand extended.

"Doctor Willa McLaren, Ms. Smoak," she said, with an unexpected Scottish brogue. "Please, call me Willa. I'm the family physician. I saw to Moira and Robert at the end. I'm just here to answer any questions while the family is gathered together."

I shook her hand reluctantly, but pulled away before any visions could take hold. "Nice to meet you, Dr. – uh, Willa."

She took a seat beside the man with the buzzcut, murmuring something to him that I couldn't hear. He nodded seriously, brow furrowed.

The young girl stood with what seemed like a genuine smile and extended her hand. "Thea Merlyn, Felicity. I'm so glad to meet you. I wish it could have been under better circumstances – Aunt Moira would have been so happy to have you here. Welcome to the family." No one else rose and it didn't seem like any of the others shared Thea's kind wishes.

"This is my brother, Tommy," she said. The younger dark-haired man nodded toward me, his smile considerably cooler than his sister's, and made no move to stand up. "And our father, Malcolm Merlyn." She glowered at the older dark-haired man seated beside her, since it didn't seem like he had any intention of getting up either. "Daddy? Isn't there something you wanted to say?"

Malcolm stood reluctantly, and I was surprised at how big he actually was. Not more than six feet probably, but there was something about him, a power that stemmed from the fact that he seemed to ooze money from his well-bred pores. He extended his hand, something cool and dangerous in his eyes.

"Nice to meet you, Felicity. It's a shock, but family's family."

I reluctantly accepted his hand. Instantly, a familiar blond teenage girl appeared in my mind's eye. She was with a bunch of other teenagers, surrounded by horses in a stable. I'm taking Willow, she told the others before a young, handsome boy that I knew instinctively was Malcolm shook his head. You've got Chance today, he said. He needs to stretch his legs.

The blond was Mara – third of the six in constant rotation in my head.

I pulled my hand away hastily, aware that the others were watching me.

"Good to meet you too," I mumbled. "So, you and Moira were…siblings?" I asked. He had to be twenty years older than Reggie, which struck me as odd. Malcolm shook his head.

"No – cousins, actually. 'Aunt Moira' just sounded better than 'Cousin Moira' to the children," he explained. "I'm the last remaining heir of Walter Merlyn – Jared Merlyn's much-less-renowned brother."

"And Jared Merlyn would have been my grandfather," I said, the family line slowly starting to make sense in my head. As soon as I had a few minutes, I would definitely need to write this whole thing down. With that sorted, I looked inquiringly at the man with the buzzcut, who still hadn't introduced himself.

"This is Oliver Knight," Quentin said, when the man made no move to say anything. "He worked for Moira—and your father, of course."

"Doing what?" I asked, when no one volunteered that information. Tommy snickered, and Oliver cast a look at the man that shut him up instantly.

"Whatever they needed," Oliver said. His voice was low, a little bit rough. "Chauffeur, security, caretaker… I helped where I could."

"Too bad you couldn't have helped the night they died," Malcolm said nastily. Oliver stared at him, and I thought I saw a flicker of pain in his eyes before it vanished.

"I was out of the country," he said to me, by way of explanation. I heard a trace of an accent there – Scottish, I thought, though it was very faint.

"What is he doing here, anyway?" Tommy asked Quentin, just as nasty as his father. These people must be a blast at parties.

"He was called here for the same reason all of you were called," Quentin said. "He is named in the will—"

Malcolm started to protest, but Quentin held up his hand. "Moira was very clear about this. Besides which, he'll be stepping in to provide support should Felicity need anything."

"I won't," I said immediately. "I mean – I'm only on the island for the day, and then I'm flying back to Portland tomorrow. I can handle things by myself for that time. I'm used to being alone." Once it was out, I was immediately sorry I'd said it. How pathetic could I possibly be? "Not in a bad way, like I don't have any friends or something. In a good way. I like being alone." God, Felicity. Please stop talking.

A smile flickered on Oliver's lips before it vanished, and I caught laughter in his eyes – so unexpected that I think he was more surprised by the reaction than I was. He didn't look like the kind of guy who got a lot of yuks out of life.

"We'll figure things out once we're through with the will," Quentin said. He ushered me to a seat beside Willa, and I sank into it gratefully. She flashed me a sympathetic smile once more when Quentin turned things over to her.

"As I'm sure you're all aware," the doctor began, laying a large yellow envelope on the table, "there was very little that could have been done following the accident. Moira was airlifted to Maine Med." She frowned, then added gently, "Robert was pronounced dead at the scene."

"What about the other driver?" Thea asked. "What do we know about the asshole who caused this?"

If Willa was surprised at the question, she didn't show it. Before she could respond, however, Quentin stood.

"Dr. McLaren isn't here to talk about the investigation, Thea. The police have ruled the collision an accident; I have no reason to question their findings. If you have questions about the accident that relate to Moira and Robert's condition—"

"Well, it killed them, didn't it?" Malcolm asked dryly. "What more is there to say?"

"How did you find out about her?" Tommy demanded, nodding in my direction. "And why didn't we ever know anything? When did they change the will?"

Quentin looked at Willa in a silent exchange, and the doctor nodded her understanding.

"Moira was conscious when I arrived at the hospital," she began. "She'd lost a lot of blood, but her faculties were sharp as ever. She asked that I contact Quentin, and told me then about Felicity."

"She changed the will at the hospital?" Malcolm asked. "She was dying – had just been in a soon-to-be-fatal car accident. She's supposed to have it together enough to make that kind of decision, when Robert wasn't even there to help guide her?"

"I don't believe Moira ever needed Robert to guide her," Willa said, with an edge to her voice that pleased me. "She knew perfectly well what she was doing. The hospital psychiatrist will be able to attest to her mental acuity at the time."

"We covered all the bases, Malcolm," Quentin said, somewhat coolly. "She knew what she was doing. I'm sorry."

"So, what does that even mean?" Tommy demanded. I was really starting to dislike the man. "She could just cut us out of the will, for some unwanted daughter we never even knew existed?"

I looked up in surprise, the words landing the blow that clearly had been intended.

"That's hardly fair, Tommy," Quentin said, his tone sharp. Tommy frowned. "Felicity didn't do anything wrong. She never asked to be here."

"But now that she is, I bet she thinks she's won the lottery," Malcolm said. "Don't get your hopes up, dear." He winked at me. "Not one of us is willing to let this go without a fight."

I stood, unable to keep my temper any longer. "Look, Quentin is right. I never asked to be part of any of this. I never knew my parents – I had no idea until yesterday that this was what I was born into, and frankly the way you're all acting, I don't think I even—"

"That's enough," Quentin said, with enough force behind the words that I pulled up short. The room fell silent. "Everyone, sit down. Felicity, please." He nodded me back to my chair.

I realized that Oliver was watching me again, anger in his eyes now. I wasn't sure whether it was directed at me or the others in the room, but his intensity still unnerved me. I scooted my chair a couple of inches farther from him and took a breath, centering myself. I didn't need allies here. I'd made my way alone my whole life; did I really expect that to change now?

"You're all fighting like you have some clue what's in these papers," Quentin began, and nodded to a manila folder in front of him. "Moira and Robert had discussed what they wanted to do about Felicity, a child they gave up for adoption twenty-one years ago. Felicity, your parents followed your progress, despite knowing they could never care for you themselves."

The information stopped me cold. They had followed me how, exactly?

I had always imagined some poor teenager who got herself knocked up and didn't have the resources or the support to raise me; I convinced myself that my mother gave me up because she believed it was the best thing for me. But Moira and Robert weren't poor. They weren't even that young. And they definitely weren't single.

Instead, they were a well-established couple, with money and property and a life they could have given to their child. Yet they gave that child up. Watched from a distance when her first adoptive parents died, just two years after taking her in.

They could have come back, couldn't they? Had they known that I was orphaned at the age of three, and left a ward of the State? Did they 'follow my progress' when I was bounced from foster home to foster home, desperate to belong somewhere?

"They've wondered for years about what to do about you, Felicity," Quentin said kindly, as though reading my mind. "There were extenuating circumstances. Agonizing circumstances, which I can't go into right now. But I promise you, they didn't take any decisions having to do with you lightly."

I nodded, mortified when I felt tears flood my eyes. Quentin cleared his throat, thankfully shifting the focus before I completely lost it in front of a room full of strangers.

"At any rate, let's move on, shall we?" he said. "To the will."

He cleared his throat, but instead of focusing on the papers in front of him like I'd expected, he turned to a computer monitor I hadn't even noticed set on a rolling cart in the corner. Oliver got up with a grimace and wheeled the cart over, and the two fiddled with things for a couple of minutes before the monitor was hooked up to Quentin's laptop. My stomach was already in knots, but at the thought of what I was pretty sure was about to come, it tightened that much further. Oliver returned to his seat, and Quentin cleared his throat before he spoke again.

"I know this will be upsetting for all of you," he said, his eyes on me as he said the words. "Moira knew what kind of impact it would have, but it was important to her that she have this opportunity." He wet his lips and took a breath. "This was filmed in the hospital, not long before she passed away. Her injuries are extensive so, again… I apologize."

And, with that, he started the video.

An instant later, after some jostling of what looked like someone's camera phone, the image stabilized and then came into focus.

My mouth went dry.

My mother sat up in a hospital bed, her face bloody and swollen to the point of distortion. Reggie gasped; Thea choked on a sob. Malcolm cursed, while Oliver's entire body tensed as he looked away from the screen.

"I know this isn't the best moment for a big-screen debut," Moira said. The voice sang in my head, needling memories gone dormant with time. I knew that voice, and not from any visions. I remembered that voice.

"…but I'm afraid I had little choice in the matter. Now or never, as they say." She attempted a smile that came out grotesque, but I stayed fixed on her eyes. I knew those eyes, too.

"According to the doctors, I don't have a lot of time left – if I do pull through none of you will ever see this, and I pray that's exactly what happens." Her eyes welled. She swallowed hard, looked away from the camera for an instant, and then was back. "But I don't think that's in the cards this time. So, I wanted to take a moment to use this as my final will and testament. Robert—" She stopped again, this time for longer, as tears rolled down her cheeks.

"We can stop, Moira," Quentin said on the other side of the camera, but Moira resolutely shook her head.

"No. I'm all right," she said. Her voice wavered, but it was strong when she spoke again. "We talked about making these changes, but it never seemed the right time and now… Well. Now, here we are."

She took a breath, which was good because it reminded everyone else in the room to do the same. I waited for her next words, my eyes riveted to the screen.

"To my beloved brother, Reginald Mason Merlyn, I leave my full share of Merlyn Enterprises, which in life gave me so much joy. This gives you controlling interest in Father's company, little brother. I am trusting you to make the changes we talked about as children. Make me proud, dear Reggie. I know this is the last thing Malcolm will want, so please be safe."

I was so focused on Moira that I barely registered the fact that Reggie and Malcolm were having a full-scale meltdown until Quentin hissed "Hush, please!" as Willa appeared on screen and helped my mother take a sip of water.

She refocused on the camera again, with a smile that I knew would haunt me long after the tape was over. "To Oliver, our earnest protector for the past five years, I leave Robert's record collection, $250,000 in cash—" she glanced off-camera for a second, confused, and amended, "—or cashier's check, Quentin says. And, most importantly, this:"

She became intent, hyper-focused, and I glanced to my side to find Oliver staring at the screen with the kind of pain that cuts to the bone.

"This wasn't your fault, sweet man. I know you'll beat yourself up, you'll retreat, you'll rail against the injustice…but my fate was sealed the day I was born a Merlyn. It has nothing to do with you."

She hesitated and wet her lips, pain crossing her face again before she shut it down. "However, I am asking one last thing: Don't run from the Merlyn name yet. I have one last request for you – the most important, by far." Tears leaked from her eyes before she got control. Her face tightened, chin rising in an expression I recognized; I'd seen it in the mirror more than once. "Please. Protect our daughter."

"This is outrageous!" Malcolm shouted. He shoved himself in front of the screen, face gone scarlet. "A quarter of a million dollars to the thug Gracie was sleeping with?"

Well, that was a revelation. My eyes nearly popped out of my head at his words, but then Oliver was on his feet and my eyes were popping for a completely different reason. Oliver, who stood an inch or two taller than Malcolm and appeared to be as much muscle as man, grabbed my cousin around the throat and walked him backward until Malcolm's back hit the wall. Faces just inches apart, Oliver growled,

"If you ever disrespect Moira or Robert's memory like that again, I will come to you in the night and I will end you. Do you understand?"

Personally, I would have wet myself at that point, but Malcolm looked surprisingly calm. He stared at Oliver coolly, which I imagine is no easy task when you're being choked out.

"Let go of me, you Neanderthal. Whatever Moira saw in you—"

Oliver's hand tightened around Malcolm's neck until the man fell silent by default. It wasn't until Willa's hand was on Oliver's arm and she leaned up to murmur something to him that I couldn't hear that he loosened his grip.

"Everyone," Quentin said, sounding six miles beyond weary, "Please, sit down. I realize this is difficult, but let's try to get through this."

After another minute or so of charged silence, everyone reclaimed their seats. I was the only one who had never gotten up, barely able to take my eyes off my mother's battered face. With a resigned sigh, Quentin hit play once more.

"And finally, to the darling daughter that Robert and I gave up so many years ago…" Her voice faltered, tears falling unrestrained now. "I can't begin to tell you what it cost to lose you. I know that your life has been hard, but you have survived – that means more than I can possibly explain here. And now, I hope that you will return to Merlyn Manor; to your rightful home. If you do, you will be sole heir to your father and my estate. I know you will do amazing things with the Manor and its land, something I was never able to do. The house, the property, all stocks, bonds, and assets…everything goes to you, dear girl." She hesitated, looking earnest and conflicted for a second before she forged on.

"First, however, there is a condition. Your father and I discussed this – the importance of knowing you are…right for Merlyn Manor. And that the manor, in turn, is truly the safe haven I hope it will be for you. Quentin will go over the particulars, but the gist is this: live on Crab's Neck for one year. Work your magic with Merlyn Acres. Survive. Thrive. Do—"

Suddenly, a look of pain crossed her face – this one so deep that she went as white as the hospital walls around her.

"Moira?" I heard Quentin say off-camera. A rapid beeping filled the room, and the camera was pushed aside, but not turned off. I gasped as doctors rushed into the frame with a defibrillator and code cart.

Quentin turned off the monitor. Nausea ripped through me. I stood blindly, ignoring my tears, and focused on the exit.

"I need to—excuse me," I said, and bolted for the door.

It wasn't the most graceful exit, but I figured they would prefer that to a puddle of vomit on their antique floorboards.

Once outside, I dove for the nearest oak tree and went to my knees. The cold, clean air washed over me.

Come find me, Uncle Reggie, little Lucy beckoned. I ignored her and remained on hands and knees in the snow as I retched up what little I'd eaten for the day. Footsteps crunched in the snow behind me. Lucy again, I wondered? The kid was relentless.

Whoever was back there, they didn't say anything. I glanced over my shoulder and groaned.

"Why are you here?" I asked Oliver.

I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, because that was the state I was in. Oliver – who almost choked Cousin Malcolm to death in front of the whole family not ten minutes before – actually looked uncertain now.

"Here as in…with the family?" he asked.

"No," I said impatiently. I got to my feet and leaned against the old oak tree for moral support. "Here." I gestured between the two of us with a wave of my hand. "Outside. With me. Watching me toss my stale airline peanuts all over the forest floor, while you look like…" I waved again, and sighed. Another flicker of a smile touched Oliver's lips; again, he seemed more surprised than I was at that. His eyebrows went up.

"Like…?" he prompted.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, right. I'm not going there – you know exactly how you look."

That flash of laughter returned to his eyes, then vanished and he was Mr. Stalwart once more. "Quentin asked that I check on you. Are you all right?"

I leaned my head back against the tree and closed my eyes. The bark was rough against my hair, grounding me in a way nothing else had to that point. "I don't know," I confessed. "I just watched the mother I didn't even know I had die literally in front of my eyes, on an island in the middle of nowhere with a family that clearly hates my guts." I shivered suddenly. "And it's really cold out here."

I opened my eyes to find him taking his jacket off, which was not what I had in mind when I said it was cold. He pushed the coat – a well-made canvas jacket lined with fleece – toward me. "That's not what I meant," I said. "You don't need to give me your clothes. We can just go back inside." The thought made my eye twitch. Not a great sign.

"Take the jacket," he said. "We should give them some time in there; Quentin asked me to show you something anyway."

He pushed the coat into my arms again. I tried backing away, but since I already had my back against a tree that hadn't moved in over a century, I made little progress. I cringed backward regardless, anticipating another brain-melting vision when we made contact.

His hand brushed against my arm. My breath caught in my chest, and I braced myself for the inevitable onslaught of images and emotions.

They never came.

He closed his hand around my arm, more gently than I would have thought possible when that same hand was wrapped around Malcolm's throat.

"Hey," he said quietly. "Are you all right?"

I blinked at him stupidly. "You already asked that," I pointed out. I took the jacket from him since he clearly wasn't leaving me a choice in the matter, and stepped away from both Oliver and the tree.

"Right," he said. "But you—"

"I don't like to be touched," I said. "That's all."

"Okay." He was still watching me, far more intently than I was comfortable being watched. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again…" He hesitated, smile flickering to his lips for an instant before it vanished again. "…as long as you put on the coat."

"Fine," I grumbled, and put on the damn coat.

It was blissfully warm, still heated from Oliver's body. That thought made an entirely different kind of warmth run through me, and I closed my eyes against a flush climbing my cheeks.

"Felicity?" Oliver said a second later.

My eyes popped open. "Sorry. I'm here. I just…never mind. You said Quentin wanted you to show me something."

"Follow me."

He struck out on the path without another word or so much as a backward glance. Warmer now and curious despite myself, I hurried after him.