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of the fire and climbing the rolling ladder to replace a book on the top shelf. With a mental shake I shook off my memories and focused on the here and now.
    Gage walked to a huge, ornately carved desk at the end of the room. He opened a drawer and pulled out a manila folder and set it down on the edge of the desk and beckoned for me to come closer. I walked forward, and with an encouraging look from him, I opened the file.
    It was full of photographs. The first was of a pretty woman with long dark hair and green eyes. She had a friendly smile and had been photographed sitting on the beach wearing shorts and a flowered maternity shirt that stretched over her hugely pregnant belly. Her arm was curled protectively around her abdomen and she was squinting in the sun.
    The next was of the same dark haired woman with a tall red haired man. She was in a hospital bed holding a pink, wrinkle faced newborn. The couple looked tired but exhilarated as they smiled at the camera.
    More pictures followed, one of a little girl with red hair twisting into little ringlets around her head riding a tiny pink tricycle. The same little girl on a shaggy gray pony and then one of her sitting with a boy with dark hair and a solemn smile on the deck of a sailboat. But it was the last two photographs that broke my heart.
    Celia, looking younger, dressed in a pink, lacy bridesmaid gown handing a bouquet to the brilliantly smiling dark haired woman. She was younger than I had ever seen her and her hair was longer, but it was definitely her. I compared her smile to the other woman's, it was the same, the same dimples and dark hair too.
    The next picture was of Celia holding the hand of the little red haired girl. Celia's eyes were focused off to the side, like she was looking at someone to the right of the picture. The little girl had a happy smile and was proudly holding up a new dolly to be photographed.
    The doll had golden hair gathered into pigtails with tiny white bows, she wore a blue dress with little cherries embroidered on the front and already the dress had a smudge of dirt on the hem.
    My finger came out to touch the picture, it was shaking, “My dolly, Lola … I don't understand. Celia is Celeste? That man and woman are my parents?” Tears coursed down my WARLOCK’S BRIDE JENNIFER RINEHART 24

    face as I turned to look at Gage. There was a terrible pain in my chest and it was hard to breathe.
    “Why? Why would Celia take me away from them? What happened? How could she do that to me?” I was shaking and wrapped my arms around myself feeling broken and lost.
    Everything I knew about myself was a lie. My whole life was a lie.
    Gage's expression was sad and the warm hand he placed on my arm was comforting, “I don't know. I called your mother and brother, they'll be here tomorrow morning. I think your mother will know more about what happened.”
    I thought about that for a minute, my parents were alive, I had a brother. I probably had cousins, grandparents even. Maybe other siblings now. My mother had been young enough when she lost me to have other children.
    “Why isn't my father coming too?” I turned to him with an inquiring look.
    His face was grim and he shook his head, “Your father Lucien, well, he died about five years after you were taken. The stress, it wore him down, he never recovered from the shock.
    I'm so sorry Anna, he was a good man.”
    I felt a pang of grief at the thought that I would never see him.
    “I have a brother? What's his name? How old is he?” I asked through a teary smile.
    Having a brother was a cheery thought and in my sad state I clung to the thought of him gratefully.
    Gage smiled back at me and pushed some of the photos to the side and showed me the picture of the little boy sitting with me on the deck of a boat, “His name is Laurent, he's four, almost five years older than you.”
    I studied the photograph and looked for clues to my heritage. Did we have the same nose, the same shaped eyes?