The nursery was filled with the soft, rhythmic sounds of breathing. Eleven months had passed since the world had collapsed into a heap of twisted DNA and shattered mirrors. On the changing table, my twin girls—Lyra and Elara—were the only things that made the air in this house feel breathable. They were carbon copies of me: the same wide, inquisitive eyes, the same stubborn set to their chins. Looking at them, you would never guess the darkness they were born from. You would only see a ...