Neverseen (Keeper of the Lost Cities, #4)(87)

How would me knowing who they are “topple” anything? Unless . . .

A new idea emerged—one far more heartbreaking than any of her other theories.

Mr. Forkle sighed. I can tell you’re still pondering possibilities. So I will add that your genetic parents had no connection to each other. There was no unrequited love. They weren’t even friends. I did that purposely, because I couldn’t allow them to know who each other were.

But they do know I’m their daughter? Sophie asked.

Yes. And that truly is the last I can say.

His voice went silent in her mind, but her head was still reeling with her new theory. What he’d told her ruled out half of it—but not the most heartbreaking part.

Her father still could be . . .

She couldn’t bear to think the name.

But he was a Telepath. And he’d always been incredibly kind to her. And it would explain why he’d given her his cache . . .

“Okay, you guys are doing that staring into each other’s eyes thing,” Keefe said, “and it’s a lot creepier when it’s Sophorkle.”

Mr. Forkle looked away, drying his eyes. “So . . . are we good?”

Sophie nodded. “I guess everyone has a few crazy family members they’d don’t know what to do with. You’ll be mine.”

Granite cracked up at that.

Fitz handed her back her Exillium papers, and Sophie studied Mr. Forkle’s name.

“Errol?” she asked.

“It’s a good strong name,” he agreed.

“You do realize your initials spell ELF, right?” Keefe asked.

“Of course. I couldn’t resist, once I knew my surname would start with an F.”

“How did you choose ‘Forkle’?” Della asked.

“Somewhat randomly. I was looking for a word that was memorable, but not too complicated, and I wanted the meaning to bear some sort of logic. Forkle is close to the word for ‘disguise’ in Norwegian, a part of the human world I’ve always been partial to, so it seemed the best fit—though strangely, I believe it also means ‘apron.’ Ah, the quirks of human languages.”

“What does the L stand for?” Dex asked.

Mr. Forkle looked slightly flushed as he mumbled, “Loki.”

“Loki,” Sophie repeated, tempted to roll her eyes. “You named yourself after the Nordic trickster god?”

“Actually, he was inspired by me. Do not credit me for the insane stories humans made up—especially that one about the stallion. But as I said, I’ve always been partial to that part of the world, and in my younger days I may have had a bit too much fun there. It was so easy to take on disguises and cause a little chaos. And over time my escapades morphed into the stories of a shape-shifting trickster god. So I thought it only fitting, as I assumed yet another disguise, that I accept the title officially as part of my new identity.”

“Guys, I think the Forkster just became my hero,” Keefe said. “And is anyone else wondering about the stallion?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know,” Granite promised. “And getting back to relevant things, have you all ensured that your forms are accurate?”

“Mine is,” Biana said, handing hers back.

Sophie was about to do the same when she noticed a field her eyes had glossed over the first time. “What does ID mean?”

“That’s your inception date,” Mr. Forkle said. “The moment your life began.”

“But the date you put is months before my birthday.”

“Of course. Birth comes after inception.”

“Wait—I remember seeing something about this in one of those human movies my dad has,” Dex said. “Humans celebrate birthdays, right?”

“Most of them, yeah,” Sophie said, wishing her brain could work faster. She could tell there was something important she was missing, but she couldn’t seem to catch up to it.

And then it clicked.

“Wait—do elves count age from this ID thing?” she asked.

“Of course,” Mr. Forkle said. “The day you were born is simply the day you took your first breath—no more significant of a milestone than when you spoke your first word or took your first step. And don’t worry, despite your unusual beginning, I was very careful to ensure your inception wasn’t affected. There were only seconds between the moment I sparked your life and the moment I had you safely implanted in your mother. Her belly button even turned pink and popped out like it would’ve if she were an elf—I still can’t understand why it did.”

The important thought Sophie had caught nearly slipped away in the deluge of super-weird information.

“Okay,” she said, counting the months on her fingers to double check. “My ID and my birthday are nine months apart.”

“Technically, they’re thirty-nine weeks apart,” Mr. Forkle corrected. “It should’ve been forty, but your mother delivered a week early. I’d worried that meant something had gone wrong, but it was a flawless delivery, even if watching her fight through the labor pains made for one of the longest nights of my life. Honestly, it’s incredible human women ever choose to have children. The agony they go through is unimaginable.”

“It doesn’t hurt for elves?” Sophie asked.