I hold my hand farther out to her. “Take it.” She looks away. “No. Your dad’s right. You should have it to remember your mum.” “I’ll see it more often on your hand than I will if it stays in a box.” She peers back at me, biting her cheek, but still doesn’t take it. I look down at the ring. “I think my father hoped I might give it to a girl someday . . .” Fiona snatches it from my palm. “Simon Snow is not getting my mother’s sapphire.” I laugh. “Homophobic.” “It isn’t because he’s a boy,” she says. “It’s because he’s a pain in my arse.” Then she screws up her face at me—like she feels guilty,
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