“Quil… imprinted… with a two-year-old?” I was finally able to ask. “It happens.” Jacob shrugged. He bent to grab another rock and sent it flying out into the bay. “Or so the stories say.” “But she’s a baby,” I protested. He looked at me with dark amusement. “Quil’s not getting any older,” he reminded me, a bit of acid in his tone. “He’ll just have to be patient for a few decades.”
