"You knew.""You knew."
Moira's voice—not loud, not shaking—just flat. The particular flatness of a truth finally understood.
Torven stood in the doorway. Fifteen winters of this moment, rehearsed in his head every night. None of the words came.
"You knew," she said again. "For fifteen years. You knew."
Behind her, through the window—Fionn. Fifteen winters old. Splitting wood in the yard, unaware.
One more year. They'd had one more year.
"Moira—"
"Don't."