“Worn for the wear?”
“Your aim was very precise. Your... how did you put it? Your Zeus bolt hit the gun.”
“So he’s alive.”
“I saida littleworn for the wear; I think I should amend that toa lotworn for the wear,” my mother said thoughtfully. “He was blown into next Tuesday. Really. I had to go and drag him back to the present. He smokes when he opens his mouth and he’s covered in burns, but he’ll live.”
“He fired the gun,” I said.
“Yes.”
“He tried to kill me.”
“You were very lucky.”
“You knew,” I said. “You must have. You knew I was making it rain.”
“I had a feeling it was you, yes.”
“When did you figure it out? Have you known all along?”
The storm when I was born. The snow in summer. The blazing heat in the dead of winter. The weather of By-the-Sea had always been laughably temperamental.
But no—not always.
Just for the last eighteen years. Because of me.
“Not all along,” my mother admitted. “Not for a while. No Fernweh woman has ever had this particular gift before. I didn’t know what to look for.”
“And then? When you realized it? How come you didn’t tell me?”
But I already knew what she was going to say.
I had to come to it when I was ready.
As if she could read my mind (and who knows, stranger things had happened), she kissed me on the forehead and said, “Exactly.”
“What will happen to Peter?”
“You don’t have to worry about Peter. He’ll be going to jail for a long time.”
“There will be a trial?”
“Of course.”
“But who’s going to believe him over us? Who’s going to believe him over Mary?”
“Like I said, Georgina, you have witnesses. And that young Harrison Lowry has proved to be quite the advocate on your and Mary’s behalf. We’ll make sure Peter’s punishment matches his crimes.”
My mother’s eyes darkened.
We hadn’t said the word yet.
Words had power.
Just like the words—
Slut.
