Page 56 of Dragon Fires Everywhere
“I don’t understand,” I whisper. Not to Azrael. Just... to the page.
Because this is theWildefamily tree. My name shouldn’t be anywhere near this.
I push Azrael’s arms off me, and while I can feel his reluctance, he lets me. I turn toward the book, crouching down and squintingatmyname on a Wilde family tree—certain I must be misreading something.
Still, his large hand stays on my arm.
I barely even feel the heat there, because this Wilde family tree doesn’t only showmyname. The line leading from me goes up to my mother, which would make sense if this was the Pendell family tree. And it canonly be her, with that name.Cadence Hilaria Morgan.
I trace the line from my mother to another name, where my father’s name should be. It should sayStanford Pendellin the same dark ink, but instead it says... something else.
A name I recognize, though it doesn’t belong here.
Desmond Wilde.
Emerson and Rebekah’s father. Notmine.
“This is wrong.” That’s the only explanation. I actually laugh. “This is... the Joywood’s dark magic, I guess. A really weird choice, but I never pretended to understand them.”
I turn back to Azrael, and there’s even a smile on my face. Because it’s just... wrong. Fake. Nothing else makes any kindof sense.
But Azrael is standing there, his arms crossed though he’s still dressed in his finery, and he looks... sympathetic?
It’s not an expression I imagine has often been on his dragony face.
And suddenly, I can’t really feel my body. Like I’ve gone entirely numb.
Too many things are hitting me at once.
My father looking sad, talking aboutfactsandstories.
Azrael saying with such confidence that my parents used to be friends with the Wildes when I never knew them to do more thanexchange a polite nod, then move on quickly—and his shiftiness about it. Not that he was lying, I understand now. That hedidn’twantto lie to me.
The Joywood at our ascension trials telling me I didn’t even know my own past.
And if I go back farther in my memories, I can suddenly remember an old picture of Lillian Wilde that used to hang in theguest room I often slept in. Emerson and Rebekah’s grandmother treatedallof us like grandchildren when we were growing up, even giving me her brownie recipe when I was just the neighbor’s kid.
In it, she was a young, happy bride.
With flowing red curls.
The kind of red I’ve never seen anywhere in any ofmyrelatives, but see in my mirror every day.
Everything goes a little dim then. Like all the lights went out, all that magical gold.
And in the center of the remaining gray is my name on a Wilde family tree.
My. Name.
“Georgina, you must breathe.”
It’s only when he says this, and actually sounds concerned, that I realize I’ve been holding my breath, like I’m trying tomake myself pass out. I suck in a tortured gasp, then let it out on something like a sob. “I don’t understand.”
I lift my gaze to meet his. I stare at him. I can’t make sense of any of this, least of all Azrael.
Because... “You knew?”
He looks uncomfortable. It’s the first time I’ve seen him anything but totally confident since he exploded into his actualform in the foyer of Wilde House.
