Croe was the wrong woman. It was a practiced role; she’d been deemed wrong for the Kroneon family, and she’d perfected her wrongness on Shaman. She was not the person any of the people who loved Mallos would have chosen for him – had been barely tolerated, even after being pardoned. She knew it, felt it, did not resent them for it; their concerns were well-founded. But she was loyal to the people she loved, would do anything for them, and was capable of loving far more people than anyone suspected. She loved Mallos, and Ángela, she’d even loved Henry in her way. She’d loved Denny and Alliannah and her ntantá. So while she could be reckless and opportunistic and dangerous, she could also be steadfast and protective and brave. And she was good in a crisis.
If it had been anyone else, Croe would have been unable to resist reading his mind. Mallos’s mind was too well-fortified for that, even if she hadn’t been disinclined to invade his privacy, but the temptation to match thoughts to expressions nagged at her. So much had happened – too much. He did not believe that there were solutions yet, and she would have to convince him. Somehow.
She got an opportunity sooner than she would have expected.
At first, Sperantia’s appearance was so unexpected that Croe sincerely thought she was a cat. A regular cat. That would have required its own explanation, since her feelings on pet ownership were less than enthusiastic, and adopting a cat that looked precisely like one’s absent familiar would be the sort of sad coping mechanism she did not expect of him. But her mouth fell open when that voice – familiar, even if the tone was all wrong and the years made her memories indistinct – disabused her. Her breath stopped short.
And then Sperantia excused herself. Without attacking her on sight. Croe could not hide the surprise on her face.
“She’s back,” Croe started, but Mallos was continuing his thought. It was obvious that he was afraid to tell her, more afraid than he’d been to tell her about Sperantia. That might have been alarming, if she had any energy left for alarm. But his broken sentences did stir up that unpracticed feeling that had become familiar, against her will, starting that night she’d found him in the caves. Worry. It made her brain foggy, so it took a moment before she understood what he was trying to say. “You said he is yours,” she supplied, searching him for a reaction. He was very still. “You said he is…ours?” A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She wanted to laugh, but the timing was all wrong, so she squeezed his hand instead. Kissed the forehead bent toward her, as if in prayer.
“Show me to my son, then.”
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