And if it's crushing me, it must be absolutely destroying Amisra.
She's four years old. She shouldn't have to wake up in a house full of ghosts. Shouldn't have to see her father's things scattered around like he might walk back through the door any moment, even though we both know he never will.
The idea comes to me while I'm standing in Daryn's study, Amisra asleep against my chest, her breathing steady but her grip still tight even in sleep. There's a cabin. A small retreat about an hour's ride from the city, tucked into the foothills where the air is cleaner and the world feels less... heavy.
Daryn and I used to go there. Back before Amisra was born, when we were younger and stupider and thought taking a few days away from our duties to drink amerinth and argue philosophy was the height of rebellion.
It's quiet there. Peaceful. No memories of illness or death or watching someone you love waste away despite every spell you throw at the problem.
Maybe that's what we need. Some distance. Some space to breathe without feeling like we're drowning in everything this house represents.
I look down at Amisra's sleeping face, at the tear tracks still visible on her rounded cheeks, and make the decision.
We're leaving.
The next morning,Asmira wakes from a fitful sleep and I help her dress. She shakes her head at my offer of food, climbing onto her window seat in her bedroom, knees pulled to her chest, staring out at the garden with those pale lavender eyes that look so much like her father's it makes my throat tight.
I settle onto the cushion beside her, careful not to crowd her space even though every instinct screams to gather her close and never let go.
"Little bird." My voice comes out rougher than intended and I clear my throat. "I've been thinking."
She doesn't look at me but her shoulders shift slightly. Listening, even if she won't acknowledge it.
"This house..." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "It has a lot of memories. Good ones. But also sad ones right now. And I think maybe we could both use a change of scenery for a little while."
That gets her attention. She turns her head just enough to look at me from the corner of her eye, waiting.
"There's a cabin," I continue. "Outside the city. In the foothills where it's quiet and there are woods to explore. Your father and I used to go there when we needed to get away from everything. I thought... maybe we could go for a few days. Just you and me. We could pack some books, bring your favorite blankets, make a proper adventure of it."
Her expression doesn't change much but something flickers across her face. Interest, maybe. Or at least consideration.
"Me and you?" Her voice is so small, so quiet, I barely hear the words.
"Me and you, little bird." I reach out slowly and she lets me smooth her tangled hair back from her face. "I'll always be here for you."
She leans into the touch just slightly and I count it as progress.
"Can Keira come too?"
The request catches me off-guard. Not because it's unreasonable—Keira has become as much a constant in Amisra's life as I have—but because I haven't spoken to Keira beyond brief, careful exchanges since that conversation in the hallway.
Since she asked for time and I promised to give it to her.
Since I've been walking on eggshells trying to prove I meant what I said about not forcing her into anything.
"I'll ask her," I say carefully. "But you know she might need to stay here. She might have things to take care of."
"Ask her." Amisra's fingers curl into my sleeve, gripping tight. "Please, Uncle Val. I want her to come."
How am I supposed to say no to that? How am I supposed to deny her anything when she's already lost so much?
"Alright." I pull her into my lap and she comes willingly, curling against my chest the way she used to before the world fell apart. "I'll ask her. I promise."
I findKeira in the kitchen.
Of course I find her in the kitchen. It's where this all started, isn't it? That first real conversation when she finally stopped running from me long enough to actually talk. When I realized she wasn't just beautiful and brave but funny and smart and so goddamn lonely it made me want to wrap her in protective spells until nothing could ever hurt her again.
She's at the counter kneading dough, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, a light dusting of flour across her freckled cheeks.I think even she has had to find new things to occupy her time since she's not typically a cook. Her chestnut hair is braided over one shoulder but strands have escaped to curl around her face, catching the afternoon light filtering through the window.
