"You knew.""You knew."
Moira's voice—not loud, not shaking—just hollow.
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 winters. You knew."
Somewhere in the house—Fionn. Fifteen winters old. Painfully unaware.
One more winter. They'd had one more winter.
"Moira—"
"Don't."