I turn toward it before I can stop myself.
She’s in one of the open alcoves off the courtyard, half crouched, one hand braced on a small chair while she says, “No, sweetheart, that is not how shoes work.”
And there’s a child in front of her.
Very small. Maybe two, maybe a little older. Sturdy little thing in soft gray trousers and a green shirt with one sleeve rolled halfway up because apparently he objected to symmetry. He’s holding a boot in both hands and glaring at it like it has insulted his ancestors.
I smile before I even mean to. “That’s about right, mate,” I murmur.
Then the child looks up.
And the whole world goes weird around the edges.
Golden eyes.
Not just light brown. Not amber. Golden.
A delicate wash of red-gold scales brushes his cheeks and peeks along one forearm where the sleeve is pushed back. Fine, luminous, unmistakable.
Vakutan.
Or half.
Everything in me goes still.
Tilda takes the boot from him, laughing softly. “You cannot negotiate with footwear.”
He says something too quiet for me to catch, and she leans down, presses a kiss to his temple, then settles onto the padded bench and pulls him into her lap. He folds into her like he belongs there. Like he’s done it ten thousand times.
I should leave.
Instead I stand rooted at the edge of the alcove entrance, staring like a man who has just been hit in the face with a memory he didn’t know his body still kept.
Golden eyes.
Red scales.
Half-Vakutan.
My mind does the arithmetic before my conscience can interfere.
No.
Maybe.
No.
The child turns his head, catches sight of me, and goes very still.
For one strange suspended moment, we just look at each other.
He has the grave, assessing stare some children get when they’re trying to decide if an adult is safe, stupid, or useful. There is nothing blank in that gaze. Nothing fuzzy. He’s watchful as a little hunter.
Then Tilda follows his attention and sees me.
Every line of her body changes.
The softness goes out of her face so fast it’s like watching a door slam in a storm.
