Page 9 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
"The pace here is... gentler," I admit, choosing my words carefully. "Perhaps we could stay through the winter. See how you fare with a slower rhythm."
Her face transforms, brightness spreading from her eyes to illuminate features that have been pale and drawn for too long. "Really? We could stay until spring?"
"If you'd like that." The decision crystallizes as I speak it, feeling both inevitable and terrifying. "We could rent a proper room, maybe find a small house. I can work anywhere, and you..." I pause, watching her practically bounce with excitement. "You seem happier here than you've been in months."
She squeezes my hand tighter, her smile so radiant it makes my chest ache with relief. After watching her wilt under the pressure of Kyrdonis society—the constant entertaining, the noise, the expectations that she be a perfect reflection of her deceased mother's legacy—to see her flourish in the space of three days feels like a minor miracle.
We reach Brynn's shop just as she's unlocking the front door, and I'm struck again by the way she moves—efficient, competent, grounded in a way that speaks of someone who's built her life through her own efforts rather than inherited circumstance. Her dark hair is braided back practically, and there are already ink stains on her fingers despite the early hour.
"Good morning," she calls when she sees us approaching, and I catch the way her eyes linger on Nya's animated expression. "Someone looks well-rested."
"I brought flowers for Rhea," Nya announces, holding up her carefully wrapped bundle. "The silver-edged ones she said were special."
Brynn's smile is genuine, transforming her face from merely attractive to something that makes my breath catch. "She'll bethrilled. She's been talking about flower pressing techniques all morning."
As if summoned by the mention of her name, Rhea appears in the doorway behind her mother, and the two girls immediately gravitate toward each other like binary stars finding their orbit. The easy way they fall into conversation—Nya unwrapping her flowers while Rhea exclaims over each specimen—creates a bubble of contentment around them that makes everything else seem secondary.
"Could I take Nya upstairs?" Rhea asks, her violet eyes bright with anticipation. "I want to show her my collection, and Mum has the good flower press up there."
Brynn hesitates, and I see the moment she weighs practical concerns against her daughter's obvious joy. "If Nya feels up to the stairs..."
"I feel wonderful," Nya declares, and the truth of it is evident in her posture, her color, the spark of energy that's been absent for so long.
"All right," Brynn concedes, though her tone carries the universal parental warning about being careful. "But stay where I can hear you."
The girls disappear up the narrow staircase with their flowers and excited chatter, leaving Brynn and me alone in the warm space of her shop. The silence that settles between us carries weight I can't quite interpret, and I find myself studying her profile as she tidies an already-organized display of quills.
"How long will you be in town?" she asks without looking at me, her voice carefully neutral.
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications I'm not sure either of us is ready to examine. I watch her hands as she rearranges items that don't need rearranging, noting the slight tension in her shoulders that suggests this casual inquiry is anything but casual.
"We might stay a while," I say finally, the words carrying more weight than they should. "Through the winter, perhaps longer."
She goes very still, her hands pausing over a collection of sealing wax. When she looks at me, there's something guarded in her expression that wasn't there moments before, as if my answer has triggered some internal alarm.
"I see." She nods once, sharply, and returns to her unnecessary organizing. "Well, I'm sure Rhea will be pleased to have a friend for an extended period."
The way she says it—focusing on the children, creating distance where moments before there had been warmth—puzzles me. There's a wall rising between us, constructed of politeness and deflection, and I can't determine what I've said to trigger its appearance.
"Is there something I can help you with?" I offer, gesturing toward the shop around us. "While the girls are occupied?"
She glances up sharply, as if surprised by the suggestion. "You don't need to?—"
"I'd like to." The honesty in my voice seems to catch her off guard. "I'm not accustomed to idleness, and you've been kind to Nya. Let me return the favor."
For a moment, I think she'll refuse. Her fingers tighten around the piece of sealing wax she's holding, and something flickers across her face—fear? Uncertainty? But then her shoulders relax slightly, and she nods toward a stack of books near the counter.
"Those need to be catalogued and shelved," she says, her voice still carefully neutral. "If you're certain you don't mind."
I move toward the indicated books, grateful for something to occupy my hands while I try to understand the sudden shift in her demeanor. The volumes are an eclectic mix—practical guides to bookkeeping and trade, collections of poetry, illustratedchildren's stories, and what appears to be a treatise on advanced mathematics. It's the library of someone with broad interests and practical needs, someone who values both beauty and utility.
"You have excellent taste in literature," I comment, lifting a volume of classical poetry that shows signs of frequent reading.
"They're not all mine." There's something tight in her voice now, and when I glance over, she's focused intently on her ledger. "Some belonged to..." She trails off, shaking her head. "It doesn't matter."
But it does matter, I realize as I watch her hunched shoulders and carefully controlled expression. Something in this simple exchange has touched a nerve, awakened some old pain that she's trying desperately to bury. The way she won't quite meet my eyes, the defensive set of her jaw—it all speaks to wounds that haven't fully healed.
I think of Rhea's striking violet eyes, so like my own and Nya's. Half dark elf, Brynn had said. Which means somewhere in her past, there was a dark elf who left enough of an impression to father a child but not enough commitment to stay for the raising of her.
