Page 11

RONNIE

THREE YEARS LATER…

I slide 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 their scent 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.

Brooke and Millie dart between rows of brimbark stalks, playing some elaborate game of their own invention.

At seven, Brooke is all gangly limbs and perpetual motion, her pale blonde curls bouncing wildly as she runs.

My daughter follows her like a devoted shadow, those tiny silver-tipped wings fluttering with excitement.

"I'm the water spirit!" Brooke declares, making elaborate gestures with her fingers that send tiny golden sparks dancing through the air. "You have to catch me before I turn the whole garden into a pond!"

Millie's face scrunches in fierce concentration, her caramel skin flushed with exertion.

"No fair! Your legs are bigger!" But there's pure joy in her protest as she pumps her little arms, those downy wings giving an occasional experimental flap.

They're still too small to lift her, but they respond to her emotions—quivering when she's excited, drooping when she's tired.

I pause at the garden gate, savoring the moment before they notice me. Millie's black curls have escaped their braids completely, forming a wild halo around her face. Those luminous gold eyes—so like her father's—are crinkled with laughter. My chest tightens. She's so beautiful it hurts sometimes.

"Mama!" Millie spots me and abandons the chase, wings fluttering as she races toward me. I crouch down to catch her as she barrels into my arms, solid and warm and smelling of dirt and sweet grass.

"Been terrorizing the garden again?" I ask, brushing soil from her cheek.

"We're protecting it," she corrects with all the seriousness a three-year-old can muster. "From evil shadow monsters."

"Very brave of you." I press my lips to her forehead, feeling that familiar surge of fierce love. "Where's your Uncle Adellum?"

"Studio," Brooke reports, skidding to a stop beside us. "He's painting something huge ." She stretches her arms wide to demonstrate. "Said we could come in when the light changes."

"That means sunset," Millie translates, clearly proud of this knowledge. "When everything turns gold."

The back door of the farmhouse swings open, and Harmony emerges onto the porch, wiping her hands on her apron.

"I thought I heard you," she calls, her smile warm. "Just in time—the meadowmint tea's ready."

We make our way inside, the girls racing ahead while I climb the steps at a more dignified pace.

"Rough day?" Harmony asks quietly as I reach her, her eyes scanning my face with that uncanny perception that still catches me off guard sometimes.

I shrug. "Just the usual. Old memories."

She gives my arm a gentle squeeze—understanding without pressing.

Three years, and not once has she asked me directly about Millie's father, even though the evidence of his xaphan heritage sprouts from our daughter's back in delicate, undeniable wings.

Not since that first conversation where I admitted so little.

The kitchen envelops us in warmth and the sweet herbal scent of the tea. Mouthwatering aromas rise from a pot bubbling on the hearth—some kind of stew with root vegetables and herbs.

"Adellum caught a pair of riverfish this morning," Harmony explains, pouring steaming amber liquid into mismatched cups. "Big ones, too. Enough to share if you'd like to stay for dinner."

"Thanks, but I've got stew at home." The disappointment that flashes across Millie's face makes me add, "But maybe tomorrow?"

The back door opens again, and Adellum ducks through, having to fold his massive gray wings close to his body to fit.

Even after three and a half years, the sight of him still triggers an instinctive flicker of tension in my spine—something primal and defensive at the sight of a male xaphan.

But it fades faster now, replaced by something closer to gratitude.

Paint spatters his hands and forearms, a smudge of blue across one sharp cheekbone. He greets us with a nod, then crouches down to Millie's eye level.

"Show your mother what you learned today," he says, his voice a low rumble.

Millie steps into the middle of the kitchen, her tiny face a mask of concentration.

She inhales deeply, then extends her wings as far as they'll go—perhaps two feet from tip to tip, still downy and delicate.

Slowly, deliberately, she flexes the muscles in her back, and the wings begin to tremble.

Then, with a soft whispering sound, they fold neatly against her spine, tucking into a compact shape.

"Did you see?" Her eyes are wide with pride. "I can fold them all by myself now! For when we go to the marketplace and I need to wear my cloak."

I glance at Adellum, a silent thank you in my eyes. He's spent hours teaching Millie to control her wings, answering questions I never could about what it means to have them. I'm thankful he'll be here as her magic comes in.

"Very impressive," I tell her, meaning it. "That's going to be so useful."

She beams, then turns to show Brooke something in the toybox by the hearth. I step closer to Adellum.

"Thank you," I murmur. "I wouldn't know how to?—"

He waves away my gratitude. "She's quick to learn. Smart, like her mother."

A comfortable silence falls between us. For all his intensity, Adellum never pushes for information I'm not ready to give. He's just... there. Steady. The way I imagine a brother might be, if I'd ever had one.

Eventually, Millie's yawns become too frequent to ignore. I gather her up, bundle her into her little cloak despite her sleepy protests that she's not tired, and we say our goodbyes.

"See you tomorrow?" Harmony asks, squeezing my hand.

"Of course."

Outside, the western sky bleeds orange and pink as Millie's weight grows heavier in my arms. Our little house waits at the edge of the village, smoke curling from the chimney where my stew simmers.

"Home, Mama," Millie mumbles against my neck, her wings twitching slightly beneath her cloak as she drifts toward sleep.

"Yes, my pretty girl," I whisper, my throat suddenly tight. "We're going home."