I woke Sunday to Leira’s plaintive cry, more of a bleat, really. I hadn’t closed my door. With Leira’s open, every sound resonated with intensity. Already I was painting the pink house white and reveling in my one-floor-above hideaway. Singing soon replaced Leira’s mewlike wail, and I drifted in and out of consciousness to my mom’s high and clear voice. The lullaby was familiar. I was sure she’d sung it to me, and she’d hummed its tune — one reminiscent of the John Peel hunting song — for years:

While you sleep, my sweet,

Wrapped in love so tight,

May your watchman be

The brave gale of the night

And the lark your reveille

At dawn’s first light

Be thee safe in my love until morning.

Leira continued to fuss. My mom then went into a second verse, one that was less familiar to me.

Do you know, my pet,

What the wise ones say?

That the swan’s snowy span

Is but a wish away.

May this comfort you

As you wake to this day

Full of love, full of hope, full of glory.

I sat up with a bolt. It was such a beautiful song. Was this the first time I’d really listened to the lyrics, the second verse in particular? If I had heard them, how had I not processed them before? I quickly padded into the hallway, pausing at the door to Leira’s room. My mom had her on the changing table; her tiny legs kicked in defiance. I took it as another sign of her strength, a quality that would come in handy: later rather than sooner, if I had any say in the matter.

“Mom, that song you were just singing, what was it?”

She pulled the disposable diaper’s plastic tape snugly across Leira’s concave belly. “I’m not sure I know the name of it. It’s something I learned from your amma, something I sang to you when you were a baby.”

“I don’t remember hearing the words before now. They’re pretty,” I added. “Do you know where Amma learned the song, or how old it is?”

My mom looked up and out the window, as if trying to pull memories from the sky. “No, and no, though I suppose it’s quite old and that the English is a translation. Almost all of Amma’s lullabies were. Leira seems to like it, anyway.”

Indeed, she had settled and was bicycling her legs in a more playful show of vitality. Another good sign, if you asked me.

“Now that you’re up,” my mom continued, “Stanley said there are some news reports you might be interested in. He’s been glued to the TV all morning.”

Uh-oh.

“What kind of news?”

“More sinkholes like the one out at the Snjossons’ property.”

I didn’t stick around to hear it from her. I headed downstairs and straight for the family room, where Stanley was — coffee cup in one hand and remote in the other — camped out in front of the television.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“The weirdest thing,” he said.

Again, the weird word. I almost growled.

“Three more very large ones, like out at Jack’s place, have been reported: one in Australia, one in Chile, and another in British Columbia. The timing is odd, almost like a cluster, but they’re too far apart to be related. Luckily, they’ve all been in remote areas. No injuries, thank goodness.”

I left Stanley channel surfing and grabbed my phone out of my backpack. Jack picked up on the second ring.

“Have you heard?” I asked.

“Yes. We’re crawling with reporters again. My dad’s at the site with a news crew as we speak.”

“So what’s their angle?” I asked.

“There isn’t one, really. Just that it’s a coincidence.”

His mom called him outside, cutting our conversation short. Next I retrieved a text from Penny. Her More holes. Freaky huh? message didn’t do much to muzzle the sirens going off in my head. Jack claimed Midas had never liked that area. What if it had been a power place? What if they had all been power places? Were they portals? Vulnerable portals? If Marik was to be trusted and it wasn’t Vatnheim, no need to ponder who else would try to get through. The fury we’d wrought in Brigid had been apoplectic, a word that shared a whole lot of letters with apocalyptic. And I left nothing to coincidence anymore.