"I know," Seren said simply. "I know you can't give me that. I just needed you to hear it. From me, I just needed you to hear it the way it really was."
Amara's throat moved.
She looked out the window for a long moment. The pewter sky had darkened slightly, clouds thickening at the edges.
"How is your father?" she said. Not Sebastian. Not your dad. Your father. The way she said it had something cautious inside it.
"Trying," Seren said. And then: "He tried to reach you. I know you know that."
"I know."
"I'm not here about him," Seren said. "This is mine. This is separate."
Amara looked at her again, and for just a moment, the careful professional face was simply gone, and what was underneath it was something much more tired and much more human, a woman who had loved a child and been gutted by it and had rebuilt herself carefully and was now standing in the rebuilt version of herself watching that child walk back toward her across the rubble.
"Sit down," Amara said.
