Page 16 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
"Can I help?"
"Just sit," I tell him, nodding toward the wooden table where Rhea's latest drawings are scattered alongside my account books. "You're soaked through. Let the fire warm you."
He settles into the chair across from where I usually sit, his long fingers picking up one of Rhea's sketches—a surprisingly detailed rendering of Nya reading by the shop window. His smile is soft, genuine.
"She captures something essential in every line," he murmurs. "Most people draw what they think they see. Rhea draws what actually is."
The observation is so precise, so understanding of my daughter's particular gift, that I have to pause in my bread-slicing to steady myself. Cyprien never noticed Rhea's art at all, too focused on his own grand visions to pay attention to a child's scribbles. But Ciaran sees her, really sees her, in ways that make my throat tight with gratitude and something dangerously close to affection.
I set the food on the table and take my usual seat, hyperaware of how close his hands are to mine, how the lamplight catches the silver flecks in his violet eyes. This intimacy—sharing a meal in my private space, listening to our daughters' laughter echoing from Rhea's room—feels both natural and terrifying.
"Tell me one of your favorite memories of Nya," I find myself saying, desperate to fill the silence before I do something foolish like reach across the table to touch his hand.
His face lights up with the particular joy that always appears when he talks about his daughter. "Nya was almost two, and she hadn't spoken yet. I was beginning to worry. Her mother kept insisting she was simply choosing to be difficult, but I suspected..." He pauses, stirring his stew thoughtfully. And I find myself curious because this is the first I've heard of Nya's mother. "Nya was always observing, always listening. She understood everything we said, responded to requests, showed preferences. She just wasn't ready to speak yet."
I can picture it perfectly—tiny Nya with her enormous violet eyes, taking in the world around her with that careful attentionshe still displays, processing everything before committing to action.
"What was the word?"
"'Book,'" he says, laughing softly. "Not 'dada' or 'mama' or any of the typical first words. I was reading to her one evening, and she pointed at the pages and said, clear as crystal, 'book.' Then she looked at me like she was wondering what took me so long to understand."
The image makes me smile despite myself. "That sounds exactly like her. Rhea's first word was 'more.' She was eight months old, reaching for another piece of bread, and just... demanded it. No babbling, no gradual development. Just 'more,' spoken like a complete sentence."
"Stubborn from the beginning," Ciaran observes, but his tone is fond.
"You have no idea," I mutter, thinking of the countless battles of will Rhea and I have engaged in over the years. "Once she decides she wants something, she becomes absolutely relentless. Last summer, she decided she needed to learn how to swim. Never mind that the nearest body of water is a day's ride away. She asked me about swimming lessons every single day for three months."
"Did you eventually give in?"
I can feel heat creeping up my neck. "Old Berren finally took pity on me and taught her in the mill pond. She was doing proper strokes within a week."
Ciaran's laughter is rich and warm, filling the small space like honey. "Persistence runs in the family, I see."
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning I'm not sure I'm ready to examine. Because he's right—I am persistent when something matters to me. I've built this shop from nothing, raised Rhea alone, survived Cyprien's abandonmentand everything that followed. When I decide something is important, I don't give up easily.
The question is whether I'm brave enough to apply that persistence to whatever this is growing between us.
After we finish eating, Ciaran helps me clear the table with the kind of natural ease that suggests he's accustomed to domestic tasks. There's something deeply attractive about watching him move through my space, his long fingers careful with my dishes, his presence making everything feel more complete somehow.
"Mum!" Rhea's voice carries down the stairs. "Nya wants to show you how to make the Ikuyenda drink! Can we use the big pot?"
I glance at Ciaran, who nods encouragingly. "If you don't mind the chaos," he says. "It's actually quite simple, but the girls will want to help with every step."
We move to the kitchen area, where I retrieve my largest pot and set it on the counter. Moments later, the girls tumble down the stairs, Nya carefully carrying her bundle of herbs while Rhea bounces around her like an enthusiastic puppy.
"First, we need to warm the milk," Ciaran explains, accepting the bundle from Nya and beginning to unwrap it. The herbs inside are dried but still fragrant—something floral and sweet mixed with earthier undertones. "Then we add honey, and finally the herb mixture. The key is not to let it boil, just steep gently."
I pour milk into the pot and set it over the fire while Ciaran shows Rhea how to measure honey properly. His patience is extraordinary—when she drizzles more honey on the counter than into the measuring spoon, he simply smiles and guides her hand more carefully on the next attempt.
"Like this, Dad?" Nya asks, holding up a pinch of the herb mixture.
"Perfect, sweetheart," he murmurs, and the endearment shouldn’t endear him to me. But it does.. "Now we wait for the milk to steam, then add everything together."
I watch him with growing fascination as he explains each step, his voice gentle but clear, his hands demonstrating techniques with the kind of grace that speaks to long practice. When Rhea asks why the herbs have to be added in a specific order, he doesn't brush off the question or give a simplified answer. Instead, he launches into an explanation about how different components release their flavors at different temperatures, comparing it to how different notes in music need to be played in sequence to create harmony.
"You mean like when I write poems?" Rhea asks, her eyes bright with understanding. "How some words need to come before others to make the meaning work?"
"Exactly like that," Ciaran confirms, and his smile when he looks at her is so warm, so genuinely proud, that I have to grip the counter to steady myself.
