He winks and before I can respond, movement at the front of the house catches my attention.
The door opens and—my father steps inside.
For a moment, I forget everything else. I cross the room in three strides and wrap my arms around him, holding on far longer than propriety allows. He laughs softly and returns the embrace, solid and warm.
He has put on weight again.
The thought brings a rush of relief. His face is fuller, the hollows in his cheeks softened. Whatever strain he has been under, it is not hollowing him the way it once did.
“Thank God,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
He pulls back just enough to look at me.
“Is that how you greet your father now? Inspecting him like a physician?”
“Yes, and you pass.”
His smile lingers, but there is tiredness behind it. He reaches up, cups my face briefly, the way he did when I was a child.
“You look well,” he says. “Better than the last time I saw you.”
“That’s the countryside already working its magic,” I reply lightly. “And the children—did you see them run past you? They’ve discovered the horses.”
“That will be your mother’s delight when she hears. She worries constantly. About you, about them,” he says.
“And my brothers?” I ask.
“Still loud. Still convinced they know better than everyone else.” His mouth curves. “Your sister sends letters longer than sermons. She misses you.”
“I miss her,” I say.
We move further into the room and sit where the light spills in through the tall windows. For a few minutes, we talk only of family; Of small illnesses survived, of minor triumphs, of nothing that could be used against us if overheard. It feels almost normal, almost safe.
Then the pause comes.
I am the one who breaks it. “I noticed the guards,” I say. “More than we discussed.”
His expression shifts, just slightly. “For your protection.”
I shake my head. “Father?”
He exhales through his nose, a familiar gesture. “You’ve grown sharper.”
“I’ve always been sharp,” I say. “I’ve just learned to use it.”
He does not argue. Instead, he leans back, studying the ceiling for a moment.
“Someone important is coming,” I say. “More important than me?”
His jaw tightens.
“Who?” I ask.
He hesitates—only a fraction of a second, but enough.
“I can’t tell you yet,” he says finally. “Not here. Not before the others arrive.”
“That makes me like it even less.”
