Before I can follow her, Cat tugs on my hand stopping me. Her eyes meet mine, the brilliant blue in turmoil. “Are you sure?”
“Sure about telling our daughter that we are her parents?”Dio, she still thinks I’m a flight risk. “Kitty Cat, I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.” I squeeze her hand and draw her closer, cupping her cheek with my free one. “I would get down on one knee and ask both of you to spend the rest of your lives with me if I thought you’d allow it.”
A rueful laugh tumbles out, then a tear slips free.
“I love you, Caitríona McKenna, and I wasn’t just talking out of my ass earlier. I will spend the rest of my life making up for walking out on you and Livia.” I pause and press my forehead to hers. “If you’ll let me.”
Her chin dips, and she leans into my palm. “Of course I will,” she whispers, voice tight with emotion.
Drawing her into my side, we finally step outside. Livia is kneeling in the grass, lining stones along a shallow trench that absolutely qualifies as a moat if you’re three.Dio, she must be almost four by now. When is her birthday?
Before I can ask, Cat speaks. “Why don’t you come inside,a stór, there’s something we need to talk to you about. Auntie Noreen made tea.”
She looks up, squints at the sun, then squints at us. “Tea is for grownups,” she declares. “And goats.”
“I’ve heard that.” I nod solemnly.
Cat sits cross-legged in the grass, and I fold down beside her. The world narrows to clover and sunlight and the way Livia’s hair throws copper sparks when she moves. My hands tremble, so I tuck them under my thighs.
“Sweetheart,” Cat begins, voice steady and impossibly brave. “We want to tell you a true thing.”
Livia blinks, interested. “Is it about the castle?”
“It’s about you.” Cat smiles, though her eyes shine. “You know how you call me Auntie Cat?”
Livia nods, expression serious.
“Well.” Cat exhales. “Sometimes grownups use the wrong words because they’re trying to keep little ones safe. And sometimes… we get braver later.” She swallows, then smooths a curl back from Livia’s temple, fingers shaking once and then not at all. “I’m not auntie, I’m your mammy.”
Livia’s mouth makes a small O. She looks at Cat, then at me, then back at Cat like she’s turning a gemstone to check all the faces. “For real?”
“For real,” Cat whispers. “I should have told you sooner. I’m so sorry,a stór.”
Livia places both small hands on Cat’s cheeks and leans in until their noses touch. “Okay,” she says, as if granting amnesty to the whole foolish world. “Do I still get to call you Auntie sometimes?”
“You can call me anything you like,” Cat chokes out, laughing and crying at once.
Livia considers me next, as frank as a judge. “And you? Who are you?”
“I’m yourpapà,” I whisper, the word a new language that fits my mouth like it was made there. “If… if you want me to be.”
She studies my face for a long second, then reaches and pokes my day-old scruff as if testing merchandise. “Dopapàsread stories?”
“The best ones.”
“And fix things?”
“Everything I can.”
She nods, satisfied. “Okay,” she decides, and it knocks the air out of me. She scoots forward, climbs into Cat’s lap first then leans out and presses sticky daisy fingers against my jaw. I don’t move. I’m afraid if I breathe wrong, the world will crack.
“Can we all read a story tonight?” she asks. “After tea. And playtime with the goats.”
My laugh is a broken thing. “We can read twenty.”
“Too many,” she scolds, but she’s smiling. She looks back at Cat. “Do I have to get new shoes if I get apapà?” She tries out the Italian accent, and it’s absolutely perfect.
Cat snorts and cries harder. “No, sweetheart, you can keep your wellies.”
