So it is James Thornton, then. Alodia files that particular tidbit away - Moira's not going to stop being pregnant any time soon, there's plenty of time to be pissed at her over her god-awful taste in men - and returns to the subject at hand: she'd told a Thornton. Not her own family, but a Thornton had been important enough to talk to.

It's like a slap in the face.

"You told him." In an instant, she's gone from yelling in anger to pure ice. "You were so desperate to get out of town, you barely stayed long enough to make sure the others were alright - they're not, if you care - but you took the time to tell him in person. How long have you known him now? Two months? Three? The people who've loved you your whole life, on the other hand, didn't even merit a phone call. I suppose we should count ourselves lucky we even got your little form letter."

She sighs. "God knows I understand wanting to run, Moira, but this? Were you trying to hurt us?" To hurt me? "Because congratulations, you've succeeded."