January 1, 1945
Frost Family Estate, Cape Cod, Massachusetts
The new year began not with fireworks, but with snow and silence.
Emma sat beside me in the backseat as the car rumbled down the long, icy driveway toward the Frost family's secluded winter home. Her posture was rigid, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She hadn't said much since we left Boston, but she didn't need to. I could feel it through the subtle thread of our telepathic connection — anticipation, fear, guilt, hope — all coiling inside her like a storm.
The house loomed ahead — all cold stone and shuttered windows, looking less like a home and more like a mausoleum.
"They're inside," Emma murmured, voice almost breaking.
Adrienne Frost and Cordelia Frost.
Her sisters.
The last pieces Winston had tried to keep broken, just as he had tried to do to Emma.
I parked the car and stepped out into the snow, helping her out carefully. We walked up the steps together, her heels clicking softly against the frozen stone.
The door creaked open at her touch.
Inside, the house was silent, save for the low crackling of a dying fireplace. The heavy scent of old wood and stale air hung in the halls.
And then—
A pair of voices, cautious, brittle.
"Emma?" Adrienne's voice, older now, but still carrying the sharpness I recognized from the scattered glimpses Emma had shared with me.
Cordelia peered out from behind her, younger but no less wary. Both carried the marks of Winston's abuse—not visible scars, but fractures beneath the surface. Their eyes darted around like trapped birds.
Emma froze for a moment—then took a slow step forward.
"It's me," she said softly. "I'm here."
Neither sister moved.
Not yet.
I stepped in then, a quiet shadow behind Emma, letting my mind gently brush against theirs. Not forceful. Not invasive. Just enough to feel the cracks—the scars Winston had left behind.
It was worse than Emma feared.
Gaslighting. Emotional manipulation. Physical tampering.
Subtle, insidious wounds that had warped Adrienne and Cordelia's minds into distrust, self-loathing, fear.
No more.
I reached out with my telepathy. A silent touch, like smoothing wrinkles from crumpled silk.
Piece by piece, I began repairing them.
Wiping away the self-hate he had planted.
Healing the trust he had shattered.
Reinforcing the bonds that should have been there — sisterhood, loyalty, love.
And as I worked, I planted something else, hidden deep beneath the natural emotions:
A deep, unwavering trust toward Emma.
And a quiet, growing warmth toward me — a belief that I had helped set them free.
It wasn't mind control. Not exactly.
I didn't override who they were — I only cleared the grime Winston had caked onto them and nudged their hearts back toward the truth they would have found on their own.
One important detail, however, made my work easier:
The Frost family's mutant lineage had a quirk:
Their powers, especially psychic ones, were deeply ineffective against other blood-related Frosts.
A natural resistance—something like a defense mechanism to keep family conflicts from turning into psychic warfare.
It was absolute immunity, but it meant my repairs and subtle nudges would not be know by Emma and by the time Charles came up they would have mental shields to block him.
There were no brute-force psychic commands. Only careful emotional redirection, and very soft nudges at the subconscious level.
It took longer. It cost me more effort.
But when I finally finished, I saw it — the light starting to flicker back into Adrienne's eyes. The brittle fear softening in Cordelia's shoulders.
Emma noticed it too.
Adrienne let out a shaky breath, stepped forward—and for the first time in over a decade—hugged her sister.
Cordelia followed a moment later, clinging to both of them, trembling.
I quietly stepped back, letting them have the moment.
Emma's arms wrapped around them both, her face buried in Adrienne's shoulder. She didn't cry. She just held them, fiercely, like someone who had finally found the pieces of herself that had been stolen.
I stood there for a long moment, watching them.
Then I turned and slipped out into the falling snow without a word.
Some reunions didn't need witnesses.
Later That Night
Boston, a quiet rooftop overlooking the city
The phone rang twice before it was answered.
I leaned on the railing, watching the snow swirl in the orange glow of the streetlights below.
"He's in custody," I said. "Official charges filed. Unofficial charges stacking up by the hour."
I smiled slightly, feeling the pieces shifting into place.
"Tell the others," I said. "The deal begins now."
The line went dead.
I slipped the phone back into my coat and turned my gaze back toward the city.
A new year.
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