“Father?”
A folded net lay on the bench. He threaded it through his fingers.
“He must be down at the—”
A voice from the door: “Tory?”
Issachar stood there, cane beneath his arm. His skin was warmer than Viktor’s, his hair cropped silver to beard.
“Father…”
It wasn’t in the face—it was in the bearing, Issachar stepping forward and Viktor meeting him in kind. They embraced, and Amerei saw the likeness plain as day: two sons of Seraphim, rooted and enduring, as sturdy as the oaks that raised them.
“You’re home,” Issachar murmured, gripping Viktor’s arms.
He turned to Gabriel.
“And I see that one followed you out here.”
“He can’t get rid of me.”
Gabriel grinned, clasping Issachar’s arm, and was pulled into an embrace.
Issachar’s eyes found Amerei next, his smile playful.
“My dear, you must be lost to follow these two through the backcountry.”
She offered her hand, grinning. He took it, tugging her gently closer.
“If you’ve been kidnapped,” he whispered, “tell me. I’ve friends in Windmere who’d have them flogged.”
“Father,” Viktor began with a half-laugh, wrapping his arm around Amerei. “This is Amerei.”
Issachar’s gaze lingered on Viktor’s hand at her waist.
Both father and son drew in breath.
“My wife,” Viktor said at last.
Issachar’s brows rose as his gaze settled on Amerei.
“And you saidyes?”
She smiled, and his gruff nod softened just enough.
“Then welcome home, daughter.”
He gestured her toward the table.
“Come, sit. Tell me everything.”
Gabriel dropped into a chair, head against the wall.
“For dask’s sake—noteverything.”
Issachar eased into his seat.
“Ah,” he said, voice low but carrying. “Working fast to give me a grandchild already?”
