“I don’t understand,” I admit, and she points to the child’s leg. To the birthmark—a love heart. Same color. Same spot. My birthmark … My heart lurches, breath hollows. Her warm, soft hand comes up to cup my cheek. “Viola …” It’s whispered. The word such a gentle thing passed to me in a shaken voice. “Viola,” she repeats, and I let my eyes lift, landing in the wide, hopeful, lilac pools of hers. “Her daughter—” Gun starts, voice cracking. He clears his throat as my focus shifts past Della to his troubled stare. “My niece. She, ahh, contracted the Blight as an infant. Della was only eighteen at
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