The contractions start at dawn.

  Anne grips the bedpost, breathing through the pain. Scott hovers nearby, his face pale.

  "Should I fetch the midwife?"

  "Not yet." Anne straightens as the contraction passes. "It'll be hours still."

  But she's wrong. The labor progresses quickly—too quickly. By midmorning, the midwife has arrived and is barking orders. By noon, Anne is screaming.

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  And by early afternoon, she holds a tiny, perfect baby girl in her arms.

  "She's beautiful," Scott whispers, tears streaming down his face.

  Anne looks down at her daughter—at her shock of red hair, her delicate features, her tiny fingers curled into fists.

  And feels the magic radiating from her like heat from a fire.

  This child is powerful. More powerful than Finn, more powerful than Charlotte had been at birth.

  Which means she's in terrible danger.

  "What should we name her?" Scott asks.

  Anne thinks of her mother, her grandmother, all the women in her family who'd been lost. "Moira. We'll call her Moira."

  Scott kisses her forehead. "Perfect."

  But as Anne holds her daughter close, she can't shake the feeling that naming her is a mistake. That speaking her name aloud will somehow draw Garka's attention.

  That they're all running out of time.