“Not yet,” she answered lightly. “He’s very busy with Tower business, you see. He has been away so long, he has so many things to tell them.”
To her great relief, her son seemed to accept the story. On the walk home, he peppered her with questions. “Is he tired from the journey? Is he very angry about the bond? Was he glad to hear about me? Can we visit him tomorrow?”
“Sweetheart—”
“I’ve been practicing what to say.” He held his wings out slightly, trying to make himself look bigger. “Hello, Papa. I’m Loïc. I’m five years old, and I can read and write in two languages, and I help Mama in the shop and—”
“Loïc.” She caught his hand, stilling his excited bouncing. “We can’t see him tomorrow. I think it will be some time.”
His face crumpled. “But why? He’s here. You said he was here.”
“He is. But he’s...he’s not ready yet.”
“Is he injured?” The excitement dimmed to worry. “Did the goblins hurt him?”
How could she explain it to a five-year-old? “The war hurt him in ways we can’t see. His body is whole, but his thoughts are tangled. The mind masons are helping him, but it takes time.”
“How much time?”
“I don’t know.”
They walked in silence until they reached their front door. Loïc went straight to his bed in the alcove, sitting with his wings wrapped around himself like a cocoon.
“I wanted to show him I can almost fly,” he said in a small voice. “Even if I’m not good at it yet.”
Idabel sat beside him, pulling him against her side. “You will show him. When he gets better.”
“What if he’s never better?”
One of the most surprising things about motherhood had been the way that her son could always ask the hardest, most important questions first. The question she hadn’t dared to ask herself. She answered as truthfully as she could. “Then we’ll find a way to love him as he is.”
“But what if he doesn’t want to meet me?” His breath hitched. “Or what if he sees me and knows I’m not a real gargoyle? That I can’t fly right and I sleep at night and—”
“Loïc.” She turned his face toward hers. “Your father loves you even if he doesn’t know you yet.”
“You can’t know that. I haven’t even met him. He doesn’t know how…different I am.”
“Different isn’t bad.” She kissed his forehead. “Your father is different too. He wasn’t born in the Tower like the highborngargoyles. He had to fight for everything he has achieved in his life. Just like you’re fighting to learn to fly.”
“Really?”
“Yes. When he meets you, he’s going to see what I see. That you’re magnificent.” She traced the edge of his wing. “You’re clever and kind and brave. You help without being asked. You can understand the moths, which even full gargoyles can’t always do. You’re perfect. You’re thinking all those bad things about yourself because you’re tired, and you’ve had a long, exciting day. Now, it’s time for bed.”
Grudgingly, he slid beneath the quilt, shooting a longing look at the lantern where one lazy, fat moth bumbled around the glass. “Can’t I stay up to listen to them a little?”
“Not tonight. You need to rest.”
“I’ll rest while I listen. I’ll be very quiet.”
Idabel had to suppress a laugh. “I know you would, but you need to actually sleep. Moth gossip will have to wait.”
“I hate waiting.” He sighed, settling back on his pillow.
“Me too,” she admitted. “But sometimes waiting is how we show love.”
He considered this statement in his grave, innocent way. He blinked slowly at her, his lids already growing heavy. “You must love Papa very much, then.”
“I do.”
