Page 132 of Storm Caller

He settles beside me, and we both stare at the water for a minute, watching the occasional boat putter past. A few pedestrians stroll by, nodding hellos.

“What are we doing out here?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.

“They’re listening to everything. You know that.”

Of course I know that.

“Dad,” I say, and he sighs, drops his head, and clasps his hands.

“I know I owe you some answers,” he says. “I’m just not sure where to begin.”

“Then I’ll start. How did you know?” I ask. “About Raine and me?”

“Your brother told me. When he accidentally discovered what he was during a storm, he was so scared that he ran straight to me. I’m not sure whether he trusted me to keep him safe or wasn’t thinking clearly. He was twelve and had no one else.”

“And me?”

“Your nanny.” When my mouth opens, he looks up. “She didn’t mean to. She just wasn’t very good at keeping secrets, and I suspected something was up. I knew she had a daughter she’d hidden from us, and I had my suspicions about why. When I confronted her, she let slip what she’d seen you do. She used you to deflect attention from her own child, and it worked. Because then it was my turn to be scared.”

He sighs and peers out at the water.

“I knew what my duty was. I knew that I should report you to the Tempestade immediately, but . . . I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I sat on the knowledge for weeks, and every time I decided this was the day I’d turn my only daughter over to the Extinguishers, I just couldn’t make myself go through with it.

“I know I haven’t always been much of a father, but in that moment, I realized that I really would do anything to keep their hands off you. So I did everything I could to protect your secret.”

“You had my nanny killed,” I whisper, and he nods.

“She was a loose end.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that I’m having trouble reconciling everything I’m feeling. He wanted to protect me, but at a cost I would never have asked anyone to pay.

“I would never have asked you to do that for me,” I say, and he glances over.

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I never intended for you to find out. You’ve always been . . . different from me.”

I understand what he’s implying. I heard it nearly every day of my life. “Soft. Weak,” I say. “I know.”

His jaw hardens, his gaze wavering. “No. That isn’t what you are. I think I’ve just . . . never understood you, Poet. When you defied me last year, I realized I’d been reading you all wrong. You aren’t weak. You’re just a different type of strong. Unfortunately for me, I figured it out too late.”

I’m left speechless.

“That almost sounded like a compliment,” I say eventually, and he snorts a wry laugh before glancing over and assessing me.

“It’s an admission that I was wrong about you,” he says, then looks away.

“Figured it out too late for what?” I ask. “You mean you couldn’t figure out how to manipulate me?”

His mouth opens and then closes before he sighs. “I suppose so, yes.”

Why does this man never cease to surprise me?

“You left Greta without a mother. She almost died.”

He spreads his hands. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t regret what I did. It kept you safe for all these years until that Robins girl had to come in and fuck that up.”

“My nanny wouldn’t have told anyone. She loved me.”

“She was paid to love you, Poet. Do you really think she would have chosen you over her own flesh and blood if it ever came down to that?”