Moira won't stop crying.

  Anne paces the floor, bouncing the baby against her shoulder. It's three in the morning. Scott is asleep—he has to be up at dawn for the sheep. Hope and Garett are asleep. Even Finn is asleep.

  But Moira screams and screams and screams.

  "Shh, love. Shh." Anne tries nursing her, but Moira turns away. Tries rocking her, but Moira only cries harder.

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  Then Anne feels it—a pulse of magic from the baby. Raw and uncontrolled, like a wave crashing against the shore.

  "Oh no." Anne's blood runs cold. "No, no, no."

  She carries Moira to the window and looks out at the dark hills. Somewhere out there, Garka's spies are searching. Always searching.

  And Moira's magic is like a beacon, broadcasting their location to anyone who knows how to listen.

  Anne presses her face against her daughter's soft hair and weeps.

  They aren't safe anymore.

  They'd never been safe.