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I take a deep breath, setting down my wooden spoon carefully to avoid betraying the tiny tremor in my hand. When I turn, Araton stands in my doorway, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame, golden eyes finding mine instantly over Millie's head as she tugs him inside by the hand.
"I invited him," I explain unnecessarily to the room, my voice sounding strange in my own ears. "For dinner."
Something flickers across Araton's face—surprise, maybe pleasure—before he schools his expression. "I brought wine," he says, producing a bottle with his free hand. "From the northern vineyards."
"Uncle Ady!" Millie releases Araton to fling herself at Adellum, who scoops her up with practiced ease. "Papa brought fancy juice!"
Adellum chuckles, the sound rumbling from his chest. "So I see." He nods to Araton, surprisingly cordial. I suppose they've interacted a lot because of Millie, though. "Velrien."
"Vey." Araton returns the greeting with equal civility, his wings adjusting slightly behind him—a subtle tell I've learned means he's more nervous than he lets on.
The realization that I can read him now, that I've catalogued his small habits and expressions without meaning to, sends a wave of heat through my body.
"Is dinner ready?" Brooke pipes up, appearing from where she'd been exploring my small collection of dried herbs. "I'm starving."
"Nearly," I manage. "Why don't you all sit down?"
The next hour passes in a blur of filling bowls, breaking bread, and watching Millie demonstrate to everyone how she can make her small wings flutter fast enough to create a breeze that blows her curls back from her forehead.
"Papa's teaching me!" she announces proudly. "Soon I'll fly higher than the house!"
"Not quite that high yet, sweetheart," Araton corrects gently, but his eyes shine with undisguised pride.
I find myself lingering on that expression, on the way his entire demeanor softens when he looks at our daughter. The jagged, distrustful part of me that expected him to eventually lose interest has grown quiet lately, buried beneath evidence to the contrary.
Across the table, Harmony catches my eye and gives me a knowing smile that makes me flush to my roots.
"Why doesn't your Papa live here?" Brooke's innocent question lands like a stone in still water, creating immediate ripples of tension.
"Brooke," Harmony murmurs, a warning in her tone.
But Millie, curse her inquisitive nature, perks up instantly. "Yeah! Why doesn't Papa live with us, Mama?" Her golden eyes—so like her father's—fix on me with uncomfortable intensity. "Uncle Ady lives with Brooke and Aunt Mony."
The table falls silent. I swallow hard, frantically searching for words that won't come. How do I explain adult complications to a child? How do I say that her father and I were never in love,that we barely knew each other beyond heated nights that left marks on my soul I'm still trying to understand?
"Well," I begin, my voice faltering. "Sometimes mamas and papas live in different houses, but they both still love their little ones very much." I feel Araton's gaze on me like a physical touch but can't bring myself to meet it.
"But wouldn't it be better if Papa was here all the time?" Millie insists, her little face screwed up in confusion. "Then he could read me stories every night, not just sometimes."
"I—" I feel heat climbing my neck, words failing me completely.
"What about cookies?" Adellum interjects smoothly, rising to his impressive height. "I think we've still got room for dessert. Why don't you two come help me set them out?"
Brooke jumps up eagerly, but Millie hesitates, clearly not ready to abandon her line of questioning.
"But first, why don't you and Brooke go work on your sparkles," Adellum adds with a meaningful look at Millie. "Then you can come show us."
That does it. Millie's face lights up, the previous conversation forgotten in her excitement to see the iridescent winged creatures. "Hurry, Brooke!" She slides from her seat and grabs her friend's hand, pulling her toward her room.
The silence they leave in their wake is deafening.
Harmony clears her throat. "I'm so sorry about that," she says, her hazel eyes warm with empathy. "Brooke has been asking us about everything lately. The phase is apparently contagious."
"It's fine," I say automatically, though my face still burns.
"Children have no filter," Araton adds calmly, as though we hadn't just narrowly escaped a conversation that would have forced us to define something I'm not ready to name. "It's part of their charm."
Unexpected laughter bubbles up from my chest, loosening the knot of tension there. "Charm is one word for it."