"I'm sorry, I don't understand," Malcolm said, looking in confusion at a series of sketches I'd laid out on the dining room table after the family had eaten a tense, endless lunch together. "You want to put what in our old gardens?"

"Milkweed," I said patiently. "For the monarch butterflies. And ragweed—"

"But those are weeds," he said. He looked at Tommy, giving up on me as hopeless. "Doesn't she know those are weeds? It's right there in the name. Didn't they teach her about that in school?"

"They did," I said evenly, "and she is right here, and would be grateful if you stopped talking about her like she wasn't. I know all about weeds. Some of them are invasive; most can be controlled easily enough, and some – like milkweed – are vital for the survival of species whose numbers have declined dangerously in recent years. All I want is to put in a butterfly meadow, over here."

I pointed to the map. I had made a decision, sometime between first hearing Oliver's story and midway through that nightmare Merlyn family luncheon. I could run back to Oregon or I could be miserable here, in either case terrified about a fate I wasn't sure I had any control over, or I could take advantage of whatever time I had on this island. I could do what I'd set out to do, and make the three hundred acres now in my possession everything I'd always dreamed of.

Now, I planned to do exactly that. I just hoped I could get Malcolm and the rest of the family on board. If I couldn't… Well. The place was mine for the next year, and there wasn't much they could do about that.

"I also want to work with the locals on instituting some more sustainable fishing practices," I said. "I've been studying up on the issues facing Maine fishermen right now, and obviously the declining numbers of traditional stock are a big problem. There are some innovative programs designed to help people in the state who are interested in certain kinds of aquaculture, however - specifically kelp farming and some shellfish. That could be a great opportunity."

"Good luck with that," Malcolm said. "Crab's Neck residents have no use for the Merlyn family, as I believe you discovered last night. You try to change the way they've done business for the past two hundred years, and it's not going to end well for you."

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," I said. "Right now, the Merlyn grounds are the first thing to tackle, clearly."

"My parents spent a lot of money making this place extraordinary," Reggie said. He'd been quiet since my return. Now, looking at him, it occurred to me that he was having even less fun with Malcolm and Tommy than I was. "When Moira and I were growing up here, it was like paradise."

"I'm sure it was," I said. "But that was a long time ago. No one has done anything but take a couple of passes with a lawn mower for the past twenty-five years. That's actually an incredible opportunity, though. I can make this place amazing again."

"Well, it's yours, isn't it?" Tommy asked. He had a gin and tonic in hand, and I knew that it wasn't his first - or even his fourth - of the day. "Why bother even asking? Just do it. When you leave, we can put it back the way we want it if it's really that horrible." He shrugged, looking at Malcolm. "Frankly, I don't see what the big deal is – let her plant what she wants."

"The big deal is, she has no idea what Merlyn Manor is about," Malcolm said coldly. "She has no idea the kind of history housed in these walls, or on these grounds."

"Malcolm," Reggie said, and I was surprised to hear warning in his tone.

"Oh, please," Malcolm said impatiently. "You don't want her here any more than I do – considerably less, I would think, since this place would have gone to you if she wasn't in the picture. I have no intention of going along with these insane plans just because she's asking nicely."

"I'm not asking, actually," I said. "I'm just… I think it would be better if everyone were on the same page. I don't want you to feel like I just dropped out of the sky and took over something that's important to you."

"But that's exactly what you did," Tommy pointed out. "I mean, let's be honest. We had plans – a lot of them, for what the next ten years would look like. And then, suddenly, Moira and Robert are dead and you're on our doorstep, claiming our birthright."

"Except it wasn't your birthright," Oliver said. He had been quiet up to this point, standing at the entrance to the room with his arms crossed over his chest, still as a Roman statue. Now, however, he stepped forward with that familiar tic in his jaw that meant he was getting pissed. I was learning fast that you didn't mess with Oliver when he got that tic. "The house belonged to Moira and Reggie's parents – Malcolm had no claim on it, which means you and Thea had no claim either."

"Stay out of this, Oliver," Malcolm snarled. "You've been all too happy to insert yourself into our lives because Moira was too blind to see you for what you are, but—"

"Hey!" I said. "This isn't about Oliver. This is about our family, and what my parents left to me. I'm sorry if you're mad because they didn't ignore me and leave everything to you vultures—"

"That's enough," Malcolm said. His voice was dangerously low, sending a chill through me. "You've been disrespectful to every one of us from the moment you stepped through that door. Don't think I don't see you rolling your eyes at me, as if I'm some old fool and you're not some…mistake, that just made Moira miss the daughter she should have had—"

"That's enough!" Reggie said.

But Malcolm wasn't done. He stalked toward me, stopping at the chair beside mine. He leaned down, his eyes dark and deadly. "You're not even supposed to be here. Hell… You're not even supposed to be alive."

He reached out in a motion faster than I would have thought possible, and clutched my shirt. I cringed backward, the images coming fast and hard, but he held fast. He stared at my neck, moving the collar until my birthmark was visible.

"Did they tell you what that means?" he asked. "Quentin or Oliver or any of the other so-called friends you've made here?"

"Let her go," Oliver said. I hadn't even seen him move, but suddenly he was beside us. He loomed over Malcolm, his eyes deadly.

"It's okay, Oliver," I said. The visions battered at my brain, but I forced them back with a will I hadn't even known I had. I met Malcolm's eye, tipping my chin up. "I know what the mark means," I said. "But it turns out, some old family curse isn't going to stop me – at least, not until I'm in the ground. Until then, I'm staying. And while I'm here, I'll honor the family legacy by doing something worthwhile with Merlyn Manor and its land."

I stood, pushing Malcolm back with a hand to his chest. Anger pulsed through me; I'd never wanted to punch someone so much in my life. "If you want to stop me, you can try taking me to court. But don't touch me again, and don't think just because I've been civil so far that I'll just lay down and let you call the shots."

Quentin came in then, and seemed to assess the situation at a glance. He took Malcolm by the arm and pulled him back.

"Why don't you take a walk," he suggested. "Cool off for a while."

"No," Malcolm said, yanking his arm away. He shot another glare at me, not even close to backing down, but got himself under control a second later. "Actually, Reggie and I have a conference call, so I don't really have time to continue this little...chat, anyway. If we could have the room."

It wasn't a request. I nodded, still every bit as mad as he was. "Sure – we can do that," I said tightly.

"Perhaps we could continue with your presentation later?" Reggie asked me. His eyes were kind on mine, and I thought again of the young man who had been Lucy's trusted companion. "Frankly, I think Moira would have loved your ideas. I would like to hear more."

Malcolm cast a murderous glance at him, but then was all business. "Tommy, you should sit in on this all," he instructed his son. Tommy winced, his usual charming grin gone for a second before it returned.

"Of course," he agreed.

I rolled up the design I'd made, and passed Oliver on my way out of the room. I caught a glimpse of his face on my way through, and he flashed a quick grin as he leaned in and whispered,

"Nice work."

"Sometimes, I'm perfectly capable of saving myself, Oliver," I returned quietly.

"Yeah," he said with a nod. "I'm starting to get that."

Of course, as soon as the meeting was over, all the adrenaline that had been coursing through my veins dried up. I told Oliver I was going to lie down, and retreated to my bedroom to try and get my head around everything I'd learned.

Once there, I dumped my day pack onto the bed and stripped to my T-shirt and underwear. Rummaging through my pack, I paused at the discovery of something that definitely had not been there when I left Merlyn Manor that morning: A tattered old book, filled as much with scraps of fabric, photos, and ancient ticket stubs as it was written pages. A note dropped out when I opened it, and I stooped to pick it up.

Dear Felicity, it began.

This is the diary that belonged to Rose Merlyn. She was never without it, and squirreled away every scrap of anything that could be perceived as meaningful. I'm sure she would want you to have it.

Best,

Ray Palmer

I traced my finger over the signature, thinking of the mysterious, smiling man who was part of my earliest memories. Against my better judgment, I took out my cell phone and the business card Ray had given me, and dialed.

Ray picked up on the first ring. "I was hoping you'd call," he said, instead of a greeting. "I'm sorry about what happened this morning. The last thing I wanted to do was scare you."

"I know that," I said. "Or… I mean, I think I know it, though it makes no sense how I know it. That's not why I was calling, though."

"No," Ray said. "I'm guessing you have some questions?"

"Only about six billion," I agreed. "Oliver told me some things, but he wanted me to talk to you about…um. Other things." Like the fact that you may or may not be over one hundred years old, I added silently.

"He told me – he called after you got back to the house, to let me know you were all right." He paused. "I do want to have that conversation with you – I swear I do. But I have to leave town for a meeting this evening. I'm going to do my best to be back by tomorrow night. Would you have dinner with me then?"

I pushed past a whirl of butterflies in my stomach – which was apt, given the folklore – and nodded. Of course, then I realized that he couldn't see me nod, and added, "Yes – dinner would be good."

"I'll pick you up at eight."

I didn't bother asking what to wear. I had exactly one dress, so by default that would be my outfit. "I'll see you then."

I hung up, and realized I had forgotten to thank him for giving me Rose's diary. The prospect of another phone call was too daunting, though, so instead I pulled back the covers and snuggled into the warmth of my bed with the diary beside me. I was more tired than I could remember being in my entire life. When I closed my eyes, no visions met me. No ghosts – just darkness.

I let that darkness take me, and slept.

I woke hours later to someone knocking on the bedroom door. When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to find the room dark, and the world just outside my window that much darker.

"Felicity," Quentin called through the door. "I just wanted to check on you…"

I sat up, made sure I wasn't naked, and called, "Come in, Quentin."

He opened the door and flipped the switch on the wall, flooding the room with light. I squinted against the harsh glare and a pounding in my head that seemed to have a life of its own.

"You didn't come down for dinner," Quentin said, "so I figured I'd bring something up. Are you feeling all right?"

There was no missing the anxiety in his voice. I managed a smile. "I'm fine – just tired," I assured him, which was patently untrue. I felt like death warmed over.

He set a tray of food on the desk by the door, then hovered for another few seconds. "I wanted to talk to you, about… uh. Well. Oliver said he told you some things, about the family."

"You mean about the family curse that says I was supposed to die years ago?" I asked.

He grimaced. "Yeah. That."

"That's right," I agreed. "He told me."

Quentin glanced out into the hallway to make sure no one was coming, then closed the door behind him. His dark eyes were anxious, and there was no mistaking the concern on his face. "I know it's a lot to take in. Frankly, I never would have believed any of this garbage back when I was a beat cop in Portland. Turns out, the world isn't half as simple as I thought it was back then."

"No, I don't suppose it is."

"I just wanted to take a minute to tell you a little something about your parents, now that you know…everything."

I looked at him expectantly, that all-too-familiar tightening in my chest returning yet again. "What's that?"

He considered for a second before he spoke, still looking uncomfortable just inside the threshold of the room.

"You can come in, Quentin," I said. "I know I'm safe with you."

He flashed a quick smile, and pulled up a chair – though I noticed he was careful to keep that chair well clear of my bed.

"Right. Well, anyway… Your folks didn't know the whole crazy story about Rose and Ray Palmer. All they knew was that there was a family legend, about girls in the family who were born with the butterfly birthmark – how those girls were doomed to die young. Nobody knew why that happened, they just knew historically Merlyn girls with the birthmark had a lousy track record."

"And then Lucy was born with it," I said.

"Right," he agreed. "Your mom was terrified from the start, but your dad didn't buy into any of it. He assured her there was nothing to worry about. So, Lucy had a birthmark. They would handle it, and the kid would be fine."

"But then she wasn't fine."

He got quiet. "Right." He shook his head, and I was surprised to see tears well in his eyes. "I'm telling you, nobody loved a little girl the way Robert and Moira loved Lucy. They adored her. Gave her the moon. She was a sweetheart, too – not a mean bone in her body, not even a little spoiled. Which was crazy, considering the way she could have gotten away with anything and everything, if she wanted."

A second or two passed in silence before he took a breath, seeming to pull himself back from some very dark memories.

"When she died," he said quietly, "everything stopped for them. Moira especially – your dad tried to hold it together, but they were both…broken. And then, a little over a year later, Moira got pregnant again. I don't think they meant to. I'd just started law school, and I remember having dinner with the two of them, seeing just how scared she was. Nobody knew, of course – they didn't want anyone to find out. Not till they had the baby, and they could see…"

"Whether she had the birthmark," I guessed.

He nodded grimly. "They wrestled over the decision for three months after you were born with the butterfly on your neck – agonized over it. But finally, I think they both knew Moira wouldn't survive if something happened to you the way it had happened to Lucy. They gave you up, in the hope that maybe if you were far enough away, the family curse wouldn't find you. But I swear to you, you were always loved. Moira never stopped thinking about you."

I wiped away my own tears – I hadn't even realized I was crying. "I'm starting to understand, I think," I said. "It's hard, but I can't imagine what they must have gone through when they lost Lucy. I just wish once they realized I wasn't going to have this sunshine-and-unicorns childhood, they'd stepped in."

"They agonized over that, too," Quentin assured me. "Once they got word your adoptive parents died, Robert was ready to go out and get you right then. Moira couldn't handle it, though."

A little, hateful twinge of bitterness ran through me at that. If Moira thought that was hard, she should have tried being tossed from foster home to foster home; being held down by doctors intent on figuring out the secrets of her tortured brain; being drugged out of her mind because no one could be bothered to ask her what was really going on inside her head.

"I just thought you should know," Quentin said. "I know it's gonna take some time for you to sort through the hell you've been through, but I at least wanted to tell you that."

"Thank you," I said. "I appreciate it – honestly."

"I know you do, sweetheart." He stood, and nodded toward the tray of food. "Make sure to eat something, would you? You need to keep your strength up."

I nodded, though food was the very last thing I wanted to think about just then. "I will."

He looked at me doubtfully, and turned to go. When he opened the door, Oliver was standing just outside the room.

"Make sure she eats something, would you?" I heard Quentin say to him. "She doesn't look so good. I may give Willa a call—"

"You don't need to call Willa," I called to him. "And I'm cursed, not deaf."

The two men shared a sympathetic glance, and Quentin left. Oliver remained outside the door for a second, looking uncertain.

"Don't just hover out there like some kind of creepo stalker, Oliver," I said. "Come in."

That smile flickered on his lips again, and he stepped deliberately over the threshold. "Sorry – I definitely don't want to be a creepo stalker. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," I lied.

He frowned. "You don't look fine." He crossed the room in a couple of long strides, and sat down on the bed without being invited. When he lay the back of his hand across my forehead, the frown deepened. My eyes sank shut, and I leaned into his cool touch. "You're warm," he said. "I think you have a fever."

"I don't have a fever," I said. When I opened my eyes again, he was studying me intently. "I'm okay, Oliver." I paused, as a sudden realization dawned on me. "Unless I'm not." I searched his face, fighting a sudden wave of panic. "Is this the curse? Can Damian Dahrk do that? Just…I don't know, give me the killer flu all of a sudden, and I'm gone?"

"I don't know," Oliver said. Which, for the record, was not the response I'd been hoping for. "Ray is flying to Inverness now – he has a meeting with Damian."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," he confirmed. "He's going to ask Damian to back off, see if we can buy a little time. The hope being that we'll be able to find the butterfly stone before he gets impatient again."

"Wow. That would be good. I had no idea you could just, I don't know, turn a curse off when it wasn't working for you."

"Most people probably can't. Damian can."

I scooted back in the bed, careful to keep the blankets up around my naked legs, and leaned back against the pillows. Oliver got up and retrieved the tray Quentin had brought in, then set it down on the bedside table.

"You really should eat something," he said.

I wrinkled my nose in distaste, though the food Raisa had prepared – what looked like potato stew, a salad, and a hunk of homemade bread – was perfectly good. The thought of actually eating made my stomach turn, though.

"So, who is this guy?" I asked. I took the bread to placate Oliver, then tore off a corner and returned the rest to the plate. Oliver picked it up promptly and tore off a piece of his own, dipping it in the stew. "Damian Dahrk, I mean. Dahrk definitely doesn't sound Scottish."

"Nobody knows where he came from," Oliver said. He finished off his bread and looked at me expectantly. I took an experimental nibble, and realized I was actually hungrier than I'd thought. I finished that off in a couple of seconds, and picked up the stew. "But his people know magic – dark magic."

"Seems like the name is a little on the nose, then."

"You could say that," Oliver agreed. "It carries weight in Scotland, though. Throughout Europe, actually; everyone knows who Damian Dahrk is."

"And this is, what, the great grandson of the original Damian Dahrk – the one who cursed the Merlyn family?"

"Something like that," Oliver said. Right. I made a face, and set the stew down. "You should eat a little more," he added.

"I'm a grown woman, Oliver – I know how much I should eat. If you don't want me to throw up all over this nice Amish quilt, you'll respect that and back off."

He grinned. "Fair enough."

Silence fell between us, one that wasn't entirely uncomfortable. Eventually, though, I started thinking about the conversation we weren't having, because I was supposed to wait for Ray to come back from pleading for my life so I could have that conversation with him.

"What are you thinking?" Oliver asked, after a minute or two. I looked at him honestly.

"I'm trying to figure out how not to ask the thing I want to know most about you and Ray."

"About me?" he asked. The forehead furrow returned. "What do you need to know about me?"

I chewed on my upper lip, considering. Oliver's gaze fell to my mouth for just a second, and I could have sworn that I saw his eyes darken, reacting in a distinctly un-Oliver-like way to me. I looked away, and promptly stopped the whole lip-chewing thing.

"I've seen you in some of the visions, too," I said. "Or someone who looked like you – though he had a Scottish accent. I haven't seen you – or him, this old-time Oliver – very much, and never before I got on the island. But there's one scene…"

"What is it?" he asked. No mistaking the tension in his voice now.

"It's with Rose. She's in an alley somewhere – looks like Europe, but an alley is an alley I guess, especially in the old days. But she's hurt, and bleeding – a lot. I can feel her fear, how terrified she is. And then you – or he, whatever – is there. She says, 'Oliver, please don't let me die.'"

His throat worked, a storm of emotion in his eyes. He stood and walked away, over to the window to stand as silent sentinel while he got himself back under control.

"You don't see any more than that?" he asked.

"No – that's the only scene he's in. Rose knew him, though; I can feel that. I can feel how much she trusted him, and there's something in his eyes that tells me she meant something to him, too. I just can't figure out what, based on that one-minute flash of whatever. All I know is that he was there, and she was hurt. And she knew him."

"Me," Oliver said. His back was still to me, but I could see a distorted reflection of him in the window. The world outside was a darkened backdrop, but in that moment it felt like Oliver and I were the only people on the planet.

"What?"

"She knew me, Felicity." He turned to face me. "Rose knew me. That person you saw in the vision is me, and the other man – the one you've been seeing for so long – is Ray. The same Ray who's flying to another continent tonight to plead for your life. The night Damian Dahrk cursed Rose's ancestors to an early death, Ray and I were there. His punishment for us was just a little different."

Sorry for another cliffhanger, but I'm gradually getting the story out there. I welcome any theories, and thanks as ever for reading and reviewing. You guys are the best!