“I did. I saw everything.” Ghantal smoothed his wild hair, swiftly unpicking the knots that had formed. He rested his head on her shoulder while she worked, his cheeks still bright from the exertion of his lesson. She finished and patted him on the head. “How would you like to meet someone special tonight?”
“Who?”
Idabel knelt beside him, heart hammering as she took his little hands in hers. “Your father.”
Loïc went completely still. “Papa? He wants to meet me now?”
“Very much.” The lie came easily. She had no idea what Brandt wanted, but Loïc needed to believe it. “He’s been waiting to meet you for a long time.”
“Can we go now?” He was already bouncing, exhaustion forgotten. “Right this minute?”
They climbed to Brandt’s tier, Loïc chattering excitedly the entire way. The eyrie door stood slightly ajar, and through the crack, Idabel could see destruction. Splintered furniture was strewn about the room, torn cushions lay limply in the corners, and there were claw marks in the stone doorframe.
Ghantal pushed the door open gingerly. “Brandt? We’ve brought someone to see you.”
He emerged from his nesting chamber like a thunderstorm given form, then froze at the sight of Loïc. Idabel’s exuberant son had gone suddenly quiet, pressing against the back of her leg. Hiding. Slowly, he leaned around her to look at his father, but he didn’t let go. She could feel his little fingers gripping the fabric of her skirt.
She swallowed hard. This was the right thing to do. “This is Loïc,” she said. She reached back to stroke his head, give him courage. “Your son.”
“Papa?”
The word broke Brandt. He dropped to his knees, bringing himself closer to Loïc’s height. “Yes. I’m your papa.”
Loïc studied him for a long moment, then stepped forward, out of Idabel’s reach. Solemnly, he said, “You have scars like Ghantmère said. From fighting bad goblins.”
“Yes.”
“Do they hurt?”
“Not anymore. They are healing.” Brandt’s voice was gruff, but his eyes were shining.
That was all the encouragement Loïc needed. He launched himself at his father, small arms wrapping around Brandt’s neck. “I knew you’d come back. Mama always said you would, and you did! I knew you were back before anyone because the moths told me. I’m really good at listening to moth talk.”
Brandt’s arms came around his son carefully, like he was holding spun glass. His eyes shut, and Idabel saw him draw a deep breath, learning Loïc’s scent.
“Tell me everything,” Brandt said, his eyes opening again. “Every single thing about you.”
Loïc needed no further invitation. He talked about his friends in the rookery, his flying-lesson success, about the things mothshad told him recently. He showed Brandt his horn buds, demonstrated his wing flexing, and recited a nursery rhyme in the gargoyle language that made Brandt’s eyes go wide.
“You speak the old tongue? I didn’t know anyone spoke it in the city.”
“Ghantmère teaches me. She says it’s important to know where we come from.” Loïc yawned, rubbing his eyes. When Brandt chuckled, he added defensively, “I go to two schools, remember? Human in the morning, gargoyle in the evening. It’s hard being a halfling.”
“I bet it is.” Brandt shifted to sit against the wall, Loïc curled in his lap like he’d always belonged there. “You’re remarkable.”
“Mama said you’d love me just as I am.” Another yawn, and his tail curled around Brandt’s wrist. “Even if I can’t fly as good as the others yet.”
“Your mother was right.” Brandt’s eyes found Idabel’s over Loïc’s head, and the fury there made her step back.
Within minutes, Loïc was asleep, worn out from his exciting day. Brandt held him like a treasure, eyes tracing every detail of his small face.
“Five years,” he said, voice low enough not to wake the boy. “I missed five years of his life.”
“I’m sorry—” Idabel started. Every time she said the words, they felt even more true. There wasn’t a thing in her life she wouldn’t give up to erase the past and begin again. Erase it all the way back to the beginning.
“Sorry?” He stood carefully, cradling Loïc against his chest. “That’s what you have to say? You’re sorry for stealing my son?”
She wanted to wail, but she had to keep her voice soft to avoid waking the small gargoyle in his arms. “I didn’t steal him. He’s mine, too.”
