"One will be golden, one will be ruin," the old man spat at my mother—and the midwife hurried away. The labor ward smelled of antiseptic and coffee. Jocelyn curled around a towel as if it could hold her together. Magnus stood too straight, too calm, the kind of calm that had teeth in it. Outside the window Harbor City kept going on: deliveries, sirens, an indifferent skyline. Inside, a prophecy landed like a stone. "You're not to say such things in a hospital," the midwife snapped, palms flat on the counter. Her voice trembled even as she tried to command the room. She had hands that had seen births turn ugly and ordinary. She had never seen one split the world. Edmund West did not listen. He folded himself around the doorway like a shadow and spoke as if the room were his pulpit. His beard was white and thin. His eyes were the color of wet gravel. He had been called because Magnus said he'd pay. He had been paid because Magnus believed. "The talisman showed it," Edmund said. "Two threads at once tied to the same knot. The herb could tip it. One pill. One fate. You can choose which tail the town will feed on." Jocelyn's laugh was a sound between a sob and a choke. "You named my children a sin," she whispered. Magnus cut the air with one hand. "Edmund tells the truth. We have traditions. We have a way to