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“I’m sorry,” is all I end up saying.

He looks at me and lifts his chin. Again, something about his eyes unnerves me. I am about to get up, to insist he go outside and find this girl—what was her name? Wehna? He should not stray from her like this.

But he speaks again. “Did you say that to her?”

My mouth drops open to respond, but I close it as my mind wanders down the maze of this last week. It halts at the last time I saw my daughter. Refusing to move on, it settles in and forces me to relive it all. I hear Amyrah shout those terrible, true things all over again.

I know enough to keep things running while my useless father wallows in the past.

Her words carried the force of a sledgehammer. But they were honest. Painful and honest, like the edge of a blade. I cringe when I recall the way I responded, channeling my hurt into a weapon against her.

You think this makes you special, but it means nothing.

Lies. More and more lies.

And that final, stinging blow, the one intended to cut her, that ended up lodging itself even deeper in my own conscience.If you are intent on ruining yourself, I want no part of it.

I have never spoken anything more untrue in my life.

“What would you do if you found out your parents were not lost, but had left you?” Even as I ask the question, I hate myself for it. Is it fair to make a child think of such things? But something about him suggests he is no ordinary little boy.

He looks at the floor and thinks for a while. “If they did that, I know they’d be sorry.”

“What makes you think that?”

He shrugs and shuffles a little on the stool. “I know them. I’ll always forgive them.”

At that moment, there seems to be a lull in the conversations surrounding us. My eyes travel down the bar. Two men are on the brink of coming to blows. I register their mouths moving, but no sound escapes. The taverner bangs the counter and cuts their scuffle short. I feel the vibrations, but everything is a silent blur around me.

Is it really possible that after all I have said and done, my daughter could forgive me—has forgiven me all along—even in the midst of the hurt and the loneliness I have put her through? Could such astounding grace really exist?

A hand drops on my shoulder, and the world comes back into focus, fills my ears with the sounds of life once more.

“Excuse me, sir.”

I turn to regard a man bent over me. He has an imposing frame—broad from his shoulders right down to his feet. His dark eyes, overshadowed by a prominent brow, glint in a heavily bearded face. I would have found him intimidating, perhaps, if I were alone. But the boy does not shrink from his presence. Not all children are excellent judges of character, but I suspect this one is.

“Yes?” I respond.

“Arvo says you looked after him.” He motions to the boy on the stool. “I want to thank you.”

I glance at my new friend. “It is actually more like he was looking after me.”

Arvo grins.

The man’s mouth moves slightly with an unasked question. He holds his hand out to me and introduces himself. “Bryn Peren.”

I take his hand. His strong fingers grip mine and give them a firm shake. “Téron Cantar.”

Bryn smiles warmly and turns to the boy. His expression becomes stern.

“Arvo, you gave your sister a fright. I’m glad you’re safe, but you shouldn’t run off on her like that.”

Arvo lowers his head sheepishly, and his lip begins to quiver. The man’s features soften. “But all is well now.” He puts an arm around him and points to the entrance of the tavern. “Do you see that woman outside? She’s my wife, Tress. She’s waiting with your sister until we can get her some help. Go to her now.”

The boy slips off the stool and takes a step toward the door, then turns back to me. He digs into his pocket for a while, sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth, until he finds what he is looking for.

“Here,” he says, holding out a fist and waiting for me to open my hand underneath it. “A girl gave this to me when I was sad. You can have it now.”