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Adellum shrugs those powerful shoulders. "She has parts of both of you."
I don't know why, but his simple acceptance cracks something open in me. "I don't know what I'm doing," I confess abruptly. "I hated xaphan my entire life, and now I'm raising one."
"Half," he corrects mildly. "And you're doing just fine."
"How can you know that?"
Adellum's silver eyes—so like Brooke's—settle on me. "Because you look at her the way I look at my daughter. Like she's the universe condensed into something you can hold."
His words are so true that they settle in my chest, healing a part of me that was so broken and afraid. I didn't know if I would hate her because of her father…
But I could never love anyone more than my little girl.
11
RONNIE
THREE YEARS LATER…
Islide the wooden bolt across the shop door with a satisfying thud, officially closing Wynn's Trade & Tinctures for the evening. It took some time to get my shop set up here, but the ritual still brings me a quiet thrill of ownership. Mine. My shelves laden with glass bottles of tinctures, my wooden counter worn smooth from countless transactions, my life carved from nothing but stubbornness and spite.
And something else now, too. Something warmer.
The late afternoon light filters through the single window, catching dust motes and turning them to gold. I run my fingertips along the row of medicine jars I finished this morning—sleep tonics infused with dreamleaf and crushed moonberries, their contents a deep purple against the clear glass. Next to them sit salves for burns, fever reducers, and my most popular item: a cream that soothes the aches in old joints when winter digs in deep.
"Another day without a single complaint about the arthritis balm," I murmur to myself, allowing a small smile as I count the day's earnings. Twenty-seven lummi, three nodals, and a beautifully woven basket traded by a traveler passing through—not bad for a Tuesday. I tuck the coins into the leather pouch at my hip, already calculating how much I can set aside for Millie's future.
My daughter. The thought of her sends warmth spreading through my chest, still surprising me after three years. My fierce, wild little girl with her impossible curls and golden eyes.
I finish my closing routine—checking the back window is latched, making sure the fire's completely out in the small hearth, gathering the day's soiled cloths for washing. My gaze catches on the corner where Millie's toys are neatly stacked—carved wooden animals, a soft cloth doll from Marda, and drawings pinned to the wall at toddler height. The latest shows what she calls a "lunox"—though it looks more like a furry blob with a triangle head.
The clay figurine Brooke made for her sits on a little shelf I installed just for Millie's treasures. Beside it rests the lunox carving from Araton that I couldn't bear to leave behind.
Araton.
Even thinking his name sends a complicated jolt through my body—anger and longing and fear all tangled into one sharp emotion I can't name. Sometimes I catch myself scanning the horizon, expecting to see that familiar silhouette with its massive golden-tipped wings. What would I even say to him if he found us? What right does he have to Millie after all this time?
What right did I have to keep her existence from him?
I shake my head sharply, banishing the thought as I grab my shawl from its hook. This is exactly why I left—to avoid the complication of him. To protect what's mine.
Outside, the village hums with early evening activity. The cobblestone path winds between stone cottages with thatched roofs, smoke curling from chimneys into the dusky sky. Gardens overflow with late summer wildflowers and herbs, adding theirscent to the ever-present aroma of baking bread from Marda's restaurant.
"Evening, Ronnie!" Old Tal calls from his porch, where he's whittling something that might be a bird or might be a sea monster. With Tal, you never can tell until he's finished.
I lift my hand in greeting, fighting the instinct to duck my head and hurry past. Three years in Saufort and I'm still learning to accept simple neighborliness.
"Any word on those blackwater seeds?" he asks, his gnarled fingers never pausing in their work. "My joints've been singing storm songs all day."
"Trader should be through next week. I'll set some aside for you."
He nods appreciatively. "Give that girl of yours a squeeze from me."
That girl. My girl. The centerpiece around which everything in my life now orbits.
I continue down the path, nodding to familiar faces—Tamsin hanging laundry behind her house, Eira tending her prize zynthra plants, Joss hammering away at something in his workshop. This place that once felt like a temporary hideout has somehow become home.
The back garden of Harmony's house comes into view as I round the final bend in the path. A chorus of high-pitched laughter floats through the air, and my heart lightens at the sound.