“Ahai, Mr. Abbot. Welcome back.” Hamish gave the post-master a grin. He hadn’t visited the little building and its sorted stacks of mail since Aia’s last letter, and the memory of it, and her, still glowed. A breeze across his face could conjure the slide of her thick black hair against his neck, and he already composed new letters in his head, ones to send her, ones to receive.
He offered the post-master his latest letter to Aia. In exchange, the Amnoon man brought a stack of mail up from beneath a nearby table. “Here you are, Mr. Abbot. This from the Priory, these from Mrs. Lionsbane, a few local invoices...” Hamish began to flip through the stacked papers and envelopes.
As he did so, the post-master offered him an apologetic look. “And these, also. Forgive me, sir. They were addressed wrongly, to the wrong guest-house, and while I should have seen it, I did not.”
Hamish tucked the first bunch of papers under his arm so he could receive the second. “Ah, thank you. And it’s fine. Quite all right. Happens.” A few coins and seconds of small talk later, he strode out into the brilliant day while peering at the overdue letters -- all from his father, it seemed.
...Desmond seems ready to take his first steps any day, though I may be biased. My grandson will undoubtedly be brilliant. Magda says she must return to her guest-house soon, but I prevail upon her with all my charm and wit. Were Desmond’s father here, perhaps the effort would be more successful...
...I suppose if I cared to write sentimental pap, I would say Magda reminds me of your mother. She doesn’t. She’s a self-contained lady, your Magda, with little of your mother’s softness. I admit, I hope you will give the relationship (is that what it was?) another chance, though Magda thinks it impossible. But you share a child, and that should count for much...
...I suppose my disappointment is equal to my lack of surprise...
Hamish sat down hard on a crate outside the post-house, then stood up when a dockworker hollered curses from aboard a nearby ship. He walked on numb legs to the shade of a towering palm tree. Desmond. A child. His child.
He shoved the letters in his pack and stared out at the water. Three ships seemed ready to sail -- one of them had to be sailing away from Kryta, rather than toward it. He took two steps forward before the unworthy thought melted away. Magda...she knew what he was. Aia would learn soon enough. The babe deserved better, and already had it in his mother. But Hamish’s father...
“Damnation,” he muttered, and went to see a ship with Lionguard at the gangplank and a massive lion on the sail.
