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"Three years," he mutters, more to himself than to me. He stops abruptly, turning to face me with an expression I've never seen on him before—vulnerable, wounded, stripped of all his usual calculated charm. "Why didn't you tell me?"
The question hangs between us, deceptively simple yet impossibly complex. My reasons felt so certain when I'd packed my meager belongings in the dead of night—when I'd imagined him taking our child to Soimur, raising her among the xaphanelite while I was left behind. Now, faced with his genuine shock and hurt, they feel flimsy, built on assumptions and ancient fears rather than anything he'd actually done.
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. Araton watches me struggle, and something shifts in his expression—a dawning realization that transforms his features into something harder, colder.
"She's the reason you left, isn't she?" His voice has dropped to barely above a whisper. "You found out you were pregnant and you ran."
My throat tightens. I manage a stiff nod, unable to form the words that might explain or defend my choice.
Araton goes completely still, the way he does when processing deeply unwelcome information. The dimple in his right cheek—the one that appears only during his rare genuine smiles—is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a muscle works in his jaw as he stares at a point somewhere over my shoulder.
"Three years," he says again, the words hollow. "Three years of her life. Gone."
For a moment, he looks like he might say more—his chest rises with a sharp intake of breath, his lips parting slightly. But instead, he turns away, refusing to meet my gaze. The bronze skin of his neck is taut with tension, his shoulders rigid beneath his traveling clothes.
Without another word, he stalks off, his long strides carrying him quickly away from my garden, my home, my careful life. The last rays of sunlight catch the edges of his wings as he disappears around the corner, throwing shadows that stretch toward me like accusatory fingers.
I slide down the rough wall until I'm sitting in the dirt beside my carefully tended plants, my hands shaking as I press them against my face. The scent of earth clings to my fingers,grounding and familiar when everything else feels like it's crumbling around me.
19
RONNIE
Ibarely sleep that night, tossing in sheets that feel suddenly too constricting. Every time I close my eyes, I see Araton's face—the shock, the hurt, the barely restrained fury transforming his handsome features. My stomach twists with the memory, guilt and fear tangling into a knot I can't untangle.
By morning, my head throbs and my eyes burn. I move through our morning routine in a fog, helping Millie into her favorite blue dress while she chatters excitedly about helping Uncle Adellum arrange his special rocks today. Her tiny silver wings flutter occasionally with excitement, catching the morning light that streams through our bedroom window.
"Mama, we match!" Millie giggles, pointing at my hair and then to the ribbons in hers. I'd braided her thick black curls back with scraps of fabric in a deep auburn shade close to my own hair color, a small compromise when she'd insisted on looking like me today.
"Yes we do, baby." I force a smile, though my chest aches. She has my stubbornness, my curls—but those wings, those golden eyes, the shape of her smile when she's trying to charm herway into an extra sweet from Harmony's kitchen... those are all Araton.
How have I never seen it before? Or did I simply refuse to acknowledge it, even to myself?
We leave our small cottage hand-in-hand, Millie skipping every third step. The morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of baking bread from the village center. Normally, I'd breathe deeply, letting the familiar smells center me, but today my senses feel heightened, alert. My gaze darts to every corner, every shadow. Is Araton still in the village? What will he do now?
"Mama, you're squeezing too tight," Millie protests, tugging at her hand in mine.
"Sorry, love." I loosen my grip immediately, guilt stabbing through me. I'm scaring her with my anxiety.
We round the corner to Adellum and Brooke's cottage, the familiar blue door a welcome sight. But as we approach the stone step leading to their porch, something catches my eye—a small wooden box sitting squarely in the center of the doorway.
I freeze, instinctively pulling Millie behind me. The box is simple but finely crafted, the wood polished to a warm glow. On top of it is my name.
"What's that, Mama?" Millie peeks around my leg, curiosity overriding any hesitation.
"I don't know." I approach cautiously, my heart pounding. There's no danger in Saufort—I know this logically—but years of survival instincts don't fade easily. I crouch beside the box, examining it without touching. Smooth wooden edges, a simple brass clasp. Nothing threatening, yet my fingers tremble as I reach for it.
The lid opens silently on well-oiled hinges. Inside, nestled in a bed of soft dark cloth, lie two bracelets—one clearly sized for an adult, the other tiny enough for a child's wrist. My breath catches in my throat.
The larger bracelet is intricately woven metal threads interspersed with tiny beads in shades of amber and deep blue. Between each bead sits a small gemstone that catches the morning light, throwing tiny rainbows against the wooden porch. The smaller bracelet is an exact replica, scaled down to fit a child's delicate wrist.
"Pretty!" Millie gasps, pushing past my protective arm to snatch the smaller bracelet from the box. Before I can stop her, she's slipped it over her hand, admiring how it dangles loosely around her thin wrist. "Mama, look! It's like the color of your hair, and—" her little finger points to the blue beads, "—these are like Uncle Adellum's wings!"
My throat tightens as I stare at the larger bracelet remaining in the box. It's beautiful and expensive and so many of the colors fill me with different memories.
"Mama, you wear yours too!" Millie tugs at my sleeve, her expression earnest. "Then we can match again!"
Those golden eyes—Araton's eyes—gaze up at me with such innocent excitement that I can't bring myself to refuse. With numb fingers, I lift the bracelet from its cloth bed. It feels heavier than it should, weighted with unspoken meaning.