A Fractured Light (Beautiful Dark)

alone.”
    “I know,” she said.
    “If I had known, I could have at least been prepared! I could have known what to expect, or tried to run away, or—”
    “Skye,” Aunt Jo said calmly. “You couldn’t have run away. And you wouldn’t have known what to expect. The Order would have found you no matter what you did or where you went. If they’d marked you, they would have tracked you down—just like they tracked your parents.”
    “But—”
    She reached over and took my hands in hers.
    “I made a promise to them that I would protect you. And I was going to keep that promise if it killed me, too. They knew what they were up against when they took on the Order. They knew they were going to die. Protecting you was their only wish.”
    “I still don’t understand why they didn’t want me to know. They could have warned me. They could have let you tell me. Why keep it a secret? Why let me find out for myself, the hard way?”
    “Because you wouldn’t have been able to change anything.” I’d never before heard such urgency in her voice. “You would have grown up with dread and fear in your heart, that every step you took, every choice you made, was being watched. It would have driven you insane.”
    “So it’s better to turn seventeen and find out I’ve been stalked my whole life by angels? To find out I have powers that could sway the course of destiny?”
    “No, better that you got to have a normal childhood, make amazing friends, and get to make your own choices—not based on what you think would keep the Order at bay for one more day.”
    “I still don’t . . . ,” I began, a huge sob racking my lungs. “This whole time. I kept it from you to protect you , when you were protecting me . You could have helped me!”
    “If I had helped you, you would have done exactly what your mother was afraid of—something drastic and probably foolish—”
    “Thanks,” I said. “You’re making this much better—”
    “I mean that in running away from your life—or facing it before your powers began to emerge and you were ready—you would have done something to change the course of the universe. Or the Order would have killed you and you’d have died trying to change something you never could. Even then, your parents knew how special you were going to be. They wanted to protect you for as long as possible.”
    The torn edges of the notebook blurred in my hands. I blinked, fighting back the tears.
    “But I can change things,” I said. “I can change them now.”
    Aunt Jo looked uncertain. “I don’t know, Skye. Others have been trying. For years. For millennia. Nothing has worked.”
    “I’m different.” I stood up quickly, and the papers fluttered to the closet floor. “They’re all telling me I’m special. That I’ll be more powerful than any Rebel or any Guardian. I can do it, Aunt Jo. Aren’t you the one who told me to follow my own star? Don’t you want me to take your advice?”
    “You should do what you feel is right,” she said. “I’ll always protect you. I will always, always be thinking of how to keep you safe.”
    She stood up, too. I didn’t feel anymore like the little kid she’d taken in. I felt like I’d lived a hundred different lifetimes since then. But when she held out her arms to hug me, I rushed into them like I was six years old and she was the only person in the world who really cared.
    I was lucky enough to know that it wasn’t the case anymore.
    When we pulled away, I bit my lip. “Aunt Jo,” I admitted, “I love you and all. But I was kind of hoping that the notebook had belonged to my mom. I just don’t have anything that belonged to her. I wish I did. It was nice to feel close to her for a little while.”
    Aunt Jo frowned, seemingly lost in thought. “You know,” she said slowly, as if still thinking it through. “I do have something of your mom’s, actually.”
    “You do?”
    “I always forget that it belonged to her. I associate it with something else completely.”
    “What is it?” I asked breathlessly.
    “It’s right in here,” she said, disappearing for a minute under a rack of sweaters. When she emerged, she was holding a large box, the kind you get from a dry cleaner for storing wedding dresses.
    I gasped. “Is it her wedding dress?” I asked, reaching out for it. Aunt Jo batted my hand away.
    “No,” she said simply. “It wasn’t her wedding dress. She gave it to me for mine.”
    “What!” I gaped. “I thought