And, here we go with the follow-up to yesterday's cliffhanger. Enjoy!

"Felicity. Wake up." Oliver's voice was low, his worry unmistakable.

"Is she hurt?" I heard Quentin ask.

"She's bleeding from the head, so I think that's a safe bet. Get Willa back here."

"Did you see who it was?"

"I went out, but they were long gone. Ssh – she's waking up."

I opened my eyes, if only to get Oliver and Quentin to stop fighting about me while I was still at least marginally alive. The two men crouched over me with matching looks of concern.

"Why is it freezing here?" I asked through chattering teeth.

Oliver glanced at Quentin. "Get Willa," he said quietly.

"I don't need Willa," I said. I tried to sit up, but that made my stomach somersault and my head implode so I gave up on that idea and lay back down. "What happened?"

"Someone shot out the window," Oliver said. Then, he looked back at Quentin with a look that I would not have messed with if you paid me. "Get. Willa. Now."

"She's probably already headed to the mainland with Sara," Quentin argued.

"Get her back," Oliver said shortly.

"I really am fine," I insisted, but one look at Oliver must have been enough to convince Quentin he wasn't backing down on this. Frowning, Quentin got to his feet and left us.

I gave sitting another try, more slowly this time. The implosion inside my head was less horrific now and it seemed less likely that I was going to hack all over the study floor. Oliver's hand was gentle on my shoulder, and it blessedly didn't trigger any visions.

"Why did someone shoot out the window?" I asked, as the events immediately preceding my blackout came rushing back in technicolor. "Or, I guess more importantly, why did someone shoot out the window while I was standing there?"

Oliver blew out a breath of relief. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know – I've never been shot before." I lifted a hand to my head; it came away bloody. Throwing up became a very real possibility once more. "Oh, crap. I've been shot."

"The bullet just grazed you," Oliver said soothingly. I was having a hard time being soothed, however, having never had a bullet do anything – graze, shoot, or otherwise maim - me before. "You're going to be fine. Willa will be back in a minute to check you out."

"You're not answering my question: who the hell just tried to shoot me?"

"I don't know," Oliver said. It seemed like the admission cost him something, and I almost felt bad for him…until I remembered that someone just shot me in the freaking head.

"Quentin said Malcolm isn't happy that I'm here," I said. "As in, not happy enough that you've been hired to…whatever."

I tried to get to my feet, since I was officially freezing and still fairly pukey and not at all interested in staying in that room for any longer than I possibly had to. Oliver helped me, his hand at my elbow. I normally would have refused the assistance, but the fact that he seemed to be one of the few who didn't trigger any visions – or triggered very few, at least – meant I was slightly more amenable to his presence. For a giant, brooding mountain of muscle, he was surprisingly comforting.

I stood on shaking legs and closed my eyes while I waited for the world to stabilize. When I opened them, Oliver stood watching me with clear concern. He held up my glasses. I hadn't even realized I was missing them.

"Not broken, but they may have a couple of scratches." He slid them onto my face before I could do so myself, a semi-permanent frown line fixed in the middle of his forehead. "I'm sorry."

"They'll be fine," I said. "Believe it or not, they've survived worse than being shot at." I reconsidered. "Okay – well, that's not true. But they've survived a lot."

"I'm not sorry about your glasses, Felicity – I'm sorry that this happened at all. I didn't realize that the threat was quite so…imminent."

"Neither did I. If I had, I might have given this whole move-to-an-island-in-the-middle-of-nowhere-to-reconnect-with-the-dead-parents-I-never-knew-I-had thing a little more thought."

He huffed a laugh. "Yeah." He hesitated. "Why don't you come with me into the kitchen. There's a fire going in there, so we can at least get you warmed up while we wait for Willa and Quentin."

He offered his arm, but I figured it was long past time for me to stand on my own. I walked ahead, painfully aware of Oliver's eyes on me as I crossed the study threshold and navigated the long, dark corridor back to the kitchen. I paused at Rose's portrait again, and shivered at her cool gaze. It felt like she was staring straight through me.

Don't let me die, Oliver, I heard her cry. The words sounded in my head, bouncing around until it felt like they were trapped in an echo chamber. Rose had known Oliver. Or Rose had known an Oliver. An Oliver who looked exactly like this one, which was impossible since Rose lived over one hundred years ago. And Oliver – my Oliver, at least – was very much alive now, and didn't look remotely like a centenarian.

What the hell was going on?

Willa and Quentin came rushing back a few minutes later. I was seated by the woodstove in the massive Merlyn kitchen, which was bigger than my entire studio apartment in Portland. Willa and Oliver exchanged a look I couldn't read, though I thought I saw blame there – as if this were somehow Oliver's fault.

"Don't blame him," I said quickly. "If Oliver hadn't been there, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be sitting here right now. There was no way he could have known—"

"It's all right, Felicity," Oliver said. He stood and faced off against Willa, who suddenly seemed much more intimidating than I'd ever imagined she could be. "There was a sniper in the glade out behind the house. I went after them once I was sure Felicity was all right, but they were gone."

"Malcolm…?" she asked. My stomach somersaulted all over again. Oliver shook his head grimly.

"I don't know."

"Wait," I said. "Are you seriously telling me that Malcolm Merlyn doesn't want me here badly enough to shoot me?" No one said anything to that, which I took to mean that, yes, in fact, my cousin was exactly that unhappy about me joining the Merlyn fold. I stood, grateful to feel more solid on my feet now. "And no one thought it might be a good idea to let me know this before I quit my job and moved three thousand miles to live on an island with no police and no hospital and only one brooding bodyguard I barely know standing between me and total disaster?"

"Maybe we should get Reggie out here," Quentin said.

"Why? Does Uncle Reggie want me dead less than cousin Malcolm?" They all exchanged loaded glances, but no one seemed to have an answer. What had I gotten myself into? I took a deep breath that wound up being too shaky to do any good and fought a rising sense of panic.

"Lass, why don't you sit?" Willa said quietly, back to the soothing presence she had been earlier. I was long past that, though.

"I don't want to sit," I said. She reached for my arm but I shook her off, a fresh surge of adrenaline rushing my already-overloaded system. "I want to know what we're going to do, because based on the broken window and my gushing head wound it seems like something should definitely be done. What about the police?"

"Already called," Quentin said. "They'll send them out when they can, but things are stretched pretty thin on the mainland. Frankly, I think what happened out here was meant more as a warning than anything else. They're just trying to scare you."

"Well, they're doing a really good job," I said, pacing the tiled kitchen floor. "And if they're trying to warn me, don't you think it would be more effective if they communicated just what, exactly, they want me to do? Or not do? Because I can't give them what they want if they don't tell me what that is – I'm a lot of things, but mind reader isn't one of them. Maybe we should talk to Malcolm—"

"Felicity," Oliver said. He stepped in my path, blocking me mid-step so suddenly that I nearly crashed into him. His voice was low, even, and he kept his eyes on mine with unwavering attention. "Listen to me. I won't let anything happen to you, all right? Whether it's Malcolm or Reggie or someone else, I'm here. They caught me off guard today, but that won't happen again. I promise."

"But—"

He touched my shoulder, his hand warm and solid. No visions came. No crushing headache. Just Oliver's steel-blue eyes, steady on mine. "Trust me. Please, Felicity."

I felt my heart begin to slow, which was weird because normally being this close to a man as absurdly good looking as Oliver would have me falling all over myself. Apparently, getting shot made me much cooler around men. Good to know.

I took another breath, this one steadier, and closed my eyes against Oliver's gaze. "Fine," I breathed. My eyes popped open again, and I turned to find Willa. "Did you want to look at this?" I asked, indicating my head.

"It's probably not a bad idea, lass," she said, a reassuring fondness in the words. "Come here and sit."

"Can I talk to you?" Quentin asked Oliver.

Oliver looked at me like he was afraid I'd fall apart if he left the room, and I rolled my eyes. "Go. Unless Willa's secretly an assassin out for my blood, I should be fine." A horrible thought struck, and I looked at Willa. "You're not, right?"

She laughed. "No, Felicity. Not in this lifetime, at any rate."

I took her words as the best reassurance I was going to get, and returned to my seat by the fire. Quentin and Oliver left the room, and I closed my eyes and let Willa clean my wounds.

Detective Roland Harriday showed up at the house three hours later. Mid-forties and a little too round to inspire confidence, the policeman walked through the study, took a couple of notes, asked some basic questions, and then told us to give him a call if there were any other problems.

"That's it?" I asked. I stood facing off against the detective in the study, the window now blocked off with plastic and duct tape, Oliver and Quentin in the room with us. "That's all you're going to do?"

The detective gave me a long-suffering smile that was no doubt meant to placate me, the hysterical little woman. "There's not much more we can do, Miss. I've got your statements, but I expect it was just some locals blowing off steam. Things can get a little rowdy around here."

"Since when is getting shot considered someone getting a little rowdy?" I demanded.

The detective looked wearily at Quentin and Oliver, the meaning in his gaze completely transparent. He might as well have said out loud, "Women – am I right?"

I drew myself up to my full five-foot-five and stepped between Harriday and the others. "Excuse me – I'm the one filing the report, so I'd appreciate it if you look at me… Ideally, without acting like I'm your harebrained mother-in-law freaking out about a spider in the corner. Someone shot out my window. They fired a gun at my house, while I was standing in full view. They shot me in the head. I'm sorry, but that doesn't seem like it should be filed under Boys Will Be Boys."

For the first time, Harriday looked like he might take me seriously. I didn't care if it was just to get me off his back, so long as he actually did something. "Sorry, ma'am. I know you're new to this place; we get used to things going a certain way, and maybe don't take them as serious as people from away might. Unfortunately, there's still not a whole lot I can do until you have an idea who's doing this – we just don't have the manpower to send somebody over here from the mainland to investigate something less than a serious threat on your life."

"That's fine, Roland," Quentin said, stepping in. He used to be a police officer, I remembered, and the way he handled himself around the detective made me think he'd probably been good at his job. "We appreciate you coming out here. Oliver and I will keep an eye on things, and I'll give you a call if we find out who took the potshot this afternoon."

Detective Harriday nodded, offered another awkward apology to me, and excused himself. So much for the long arm of the law.

After the shooting and the harrowing afternoon that followed, a fierce headache settled in my temples and I begged off dinner and retreated to my room instead. Thankfully, my first night at Merlyn Manor wasn't nearly as terrifying as I'd expected. I chose a bedroom on the south-facing side of the house, since I knew it would get the best sunlight and I planned to bring in house plants just as soon as possible. Once I'd selected the room, I stood in the doorway for a full ten minutes listening to the house. Or, I guess more accurately, listening to the voices in my head that seemed to belong to the house. They didn't feel like ghosts – they just felt like part of me. Parts that suddenly, after twenty-two years, were beginning to make sense.

Sort of.

It was kind of like I'd spent my life seeing bits and pieces of a puzzle, and now I was getting the whole picture. Or maybe like reading scattershot chapters only to be presented with the whole book. Whatever it was, it was exciting.

The room I chose had wallpaper with pale pink roses in endless vines twined around the room, cedar waxwings nested in sections of thorn wherever I looked. There was a four-poster bed made up with an Amish quilt, also in rose and white, and an antique night stand with aged brass pulls. Like so many things in the house, it looked handmade, rustic in a way that made me wonder if one of my ancestors had made these things.

Oliver insisted on staying at the manor as well, and after the attack that afternoon I hardly fought him on that. He chose a room a couple of doors down from mine, assuring me that if I needed anything all I needed to do was call. I agreed, praying that that wouldn't be necessary.

There was no internet in the house, which I hoped could be remedied though I wasn't sure how. At least I had cell service. When I'd first heard of Crab's Neck, I wasn't even sure I'd get that.

I put the few clothes I had in an antique dresser, oak like the night stand, and then settled on the bed. When I first planned on being out here, I'd thought I would be alone. As it turned out, Quentin had also moved in, along with a cook/housekeeper named Raisa, so between them and Oliver it hardly seemed like I would have time to get lonely. It wasn't like I was afraid of being alone; I wasn't even afraid of the house necessarily, but – given the random shooting thing – it did seem like a lot to tackle on my own.

That night at eight o'clock, once I'd organized my stuff and was wondering what I was supposed to do next, there was a light knock on the bedroom door.

"Come in."

Quentin opened the door a crack and poked his head in, eyes averted, like he was afraid I might be naked or something.

"You can come in, Quentin," I said. "I'm decent."

I was on the bed, on top of the covers despite the chill, with notebooks and a dozen textbooks spread out on the quilt. Quentin took a hesitant step past the threshold. He still wore his jeans and button-up shirt, the only sign of domesticity a pair of leather slippers that looked well broken-in.

"I was getting ready to turn in, but figured I'd check in, see if I could get you anything more before bed."

I quirked an eyebrow. "You're my lawyer, Quentin, not my man servant. And I guess you're not really even my lawyer – you were Moira and Robert's lawyer. You don't have to wait on me."

"I know," he said. He looked sheepish. "I'm just glad you're here, and I know it's been a tough day. If there's anything I can do…"

"You've done plenty," I said firmly. "You and Oliver and Willa have been amazing all day – I'm fine. Go to bed. Get a good night's sleep. I might actually need a hand on the grounds tomorrow, or at least in the next week or two. Save your energy for that."

"Will do. Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight, Quentin."

I refocused on my books only to realize a second later that he hadn't actually gone yet. I looked up. "Was there something else?"

He took a step toward me, and I realized for the first time that he held something behind his back. After another pause, he produced a hefty hardbound tome that looked positively ancient. "I wasn't sure if you were aware, but we have an extensive library here."

I still hadn't gotten much of the tour of the house, since I'd spent my afternoon recovering from the shock of not dying at the hands of a masked gunman instead of getting acquainted with my new digs. A library in a house like this shouldn't have been a surprise, but a shiver of excitement went through me all the same.

"No," I said. "I'll have to look in there tomorrow. I love old books. And new books. Pretty much any books, really."

"Moira felt the same way," Quentin said, with a sad smile. "That room was her favorite place to be, back before…"

I raised my eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. Predictably enough, he didn't. Instead, he changed the subject.

"Anyway, included in the library is a section containing the family archives."

I looked at him sharply. "Seriously? There are family archives?"

He walked to the bed and set the book down quickly, then retreated before I got the wrong idea. "This is just one volume. Like I said, there's a whole section down there. It seemed like something you might be interested in. Malcolm and Reggie weren't sure it was a good idea to give you access. I don't agree."

"Thank you – I'm glad someone's on my side out here." I eagerly picked up the volume he'd given me. "You're right, I'm definitely interested in this. It means a lot – I really appreciate it."

He shrugged. "It's the least I can do, now that you're here. Give a shout if you need anything in the night. I'm over in the east wing, but Oliver will hear you. He can get me."

"I'll be fine, Quentin," I reassured him. "Get some sleep."

He left this time, and I managed to restrain myself from diving in until he'd closed the door behind him and I was alone once more. As soon as he was gone, though, I opened the book and was lost.

The volume Quentin had given me turned out to be mostly about the family business: land deals, birth and marriage and death certificates, galleries and exhibitions and which Merlyn paintings sold for how much. There were only two photos, both of men from the late 1800s, one of whom turned out to be Byron Merlyn – the patriarch of the family.

I was able to learn more about the girls whose memories had been replaying inside my head all these years, though. I knew their names from the visions, and so gradually put together where all six of them fit into the family tree.

The farthest back was Rose, daughter of Byron and Mary. She was born in 1902, but I couldn't find any marriage or death certificate with her information. The next was Lily, born in 1928 only to die five years later. There was no cause of death listed on the death certificate, but a yellowed newspaper article included with the page said that she'd fallen off the cliffs out on the island. I swallowed past tears, thinking of a laughing, pudgy little blond girl in my visions.

Winnie came next, in 1940 – great granddaughter to Byron and Mary. The girl died at twelve years old, during a storm out on the island. I thought of the vision I'd had the most of her: a gangly pre-teen with her hair done up in braids, boarding a sailboat as the sky went dark overhead.

Winnie's mother, Rachel, died two years later.

I closed my eyes. I loved Rachel – in my visions, I'd always found her to be such a comforting presence. She and Winnie had been inseparable; they played all the time, Rachel barely more than a teenager herself when her daughter was born. Losing Winnie had killed her, I was sure of it. It wasn't something she would have gotten over.

Next was Ella, born in 1954. She was killed when her foot got stuck on the train tracks when she and her parents were visiting the mainland.

My stomach turned.

I closed the book before I could read anymore.

Four of the six girls had met terrible ends. What did that mean? Why was I seeing their lives now? How did I somehow have access to their memories, decades after their deaths?

It was nearly midnight by now. I stacked my books neatly by the bed with the family tome at the very bottom, then turned out the lamp and lay down. An owl called in the distance, the sound lonely in the stillness. The house creaked and moaned.

Close your eyes, a voice whispered in my ear. A man's voice. Instead of doing as instructed, my eyes shot open wide. I lay perfectly still, heart hammering in my ears.

I'm not tired, Rose said, a trace of petulance in her voice. How am I supposed to sleep when you're beside me looking like that?

Ray turned over to look at her, only it felt a lot like he'd rolled over to look at me. His eyes were clear, magnetic, a playful smile on his lips.

Now, now, Rose, he said softly. I just came to say goodnight. No funny stuff.

But where's the fun in that? she whispered.

His eyes darkened. My heart sped up, my belly coiled tight when he looked at me – at her – with a kind of want I had never seen before.

I should go, he said. The words came out hoarse.

Or you could stay, Rose said. There was still teasing there, sure, but beneath it I heard a kind of vulnerability that I didn't usually associate with Rose. In the vision, she was probably sixteen, maybe seventeen years old. I could feel her loneliness, the pain of need so deep that it ached. Please, Ray, she continued. Nights are too long without you. Just stay with me.

Her hand reached out to him, and she ran her knuckles along his jaw. I could feel the stubble beneath my own hand, the warmth of his body against my own. I'd had these visions my entire life, but I'd never experienced anything like this. Ray reached for her, removing her hand to bring it to his lips. He pressed a soft kiss to her palm.

All right, then, he whispered. I'll stay. But to sleep – nothing more. Close your eyes.

Almost against my will, my own eyes sank shut. I felt his gentling hand on me as he pushed the hair back from my forehead.

Sleep, sweet Rose, he said softly. He kissed my forehead, his body a gentle pressure against mine. Have sweet dreams, my love.