Athena?’ ‘Yes?’ I can barely get out the words. ‘How old is—how old is her—Tabby?’ ‘She’s eight. Nearly nine.’ Athena’s voice is soft when she says it in a way I haven’t heard before, except when she’s mooning over my brother. My beautiful Marlowe is mother to a gravely ill eight-year-old little girl, and I didn’t know a damn thing about it.
