My mom sees something before any of us do, before I even feel it. She lays a hand on my knee and rubs it, murmuring, “Is something wrong?”
I start to tell her no, but as soon as she asks, I see it—the shifting behind my eyes, a sudden and sharp flare of white light bursting across my vision. I want to say it’s nothing, that this visit can stay ordinary for just a little longer.
I blink, trying to clear it. “Huh,” I say softly, more to myself than anyone else.
Rowan notices immediately. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s fine,” I say, but my voice sounds far away.
Rowan reaches for my hand again. “Declan, look at her hand, like.”
I glance down, surprised to see that the skin over my knuckles looks tighter.
29
DECLAN
“It’s fine,”she says again, offering the room a clearly forced smile, as tight as the skin on her hands.
“Let’s check anyway,” I tell her firmly. “Just to be safe.”
Her right hand is puffed, the skin shiny and tight. It’s wrong. I move to her side. “How’s your head?”
“Just tired,” she says, rubbing her temple. Her voice is too light, airy almost. “It’s been a day.”
“Look at me, Willow,” I tell her.
She does—and blinks hard, then again. “Sorry, it’s…weird. Lights are—” She hesitates, squinting toward the lamp. “Kind of sparkling. Like glitter.”
A stone drops in my stomach. I reach for the blood-pressure cuff in my bag. “You’ve got a headache?”
“It’s fine,” she insists, but her tone is brittle. Her mother straightens from where she’s been perched on the bed’s edge. Camille stops mid-sentence, pastry half lifted to her mouth.
“What’s going on?” her mom asks. “What does glitter mean?”
“It means she’s having a visual aura,” I say, keeping my voice even.
“Sometimes it’s as simple as a migraine,” Sean says smoothly.
“Sometimes it’s not,” comes Rowan’s retort.
I slide the cuff around Willow’s arm. “Let’s check your pressure.”
“Declan,” Rowan murmurs, his voice barely above breath. “Her hand’s fierce swollen.”
“I see it,” I say. “Sean, get me the kit from the hall—front pocket.”
Sean’s gone and back in seconds, handing me the small case like we’ve done this a hundred times. He’s quiet now, no jokes. That’s how I know he’s scared.
The cuff inflates, hissing. The room’s full of people but nobody moves. The air feels heavy, like even sound might make things worse.
Willow tries to keep still, eyes unfocused on a point on the wall. I watch the needle fall, wait for the pulse under my fingers, and then it hits the number that makes my jaw lock.
“One sixty over one ten,” I say quietly.
Camille’s head snaps up. “Is that?—”
“Too high,” I finish. “We need to go.”
