“But what WAS it, mommy?”
The incessant curiosity. It was a blessing, of course, especially when coupled with the child’s pragmatic courage. A progeny of such lineage would need to learn how to respond appropriately to the possibilities that lurked in the dark recesses of the world, but Isobel remained thankful that it was a lesson that came naturally to her daughter. Lia’s fascination for the macabre was cementing itself as her signature trait; the child could laugh at clowns, for Grenth’s sake.
“Just a messenger, darling. A rather ostentatious one but you will learn that there are many who find it necessary to flaunt their capabilities in such a way. Usually to compensate for a perceived deficiency in other areas.”
Quizzical blue eyes continued to stare at the door as the petite investigator considered her mother’s response. Then, with a whirl on heel that carried her father’s flair for the dramatic, Emalia approached the desk where her remaining parent sat regarding the piece of parchment.
“Was it truly from another dimension?”
The pair of them shared many similarities, but most of them counted as the firmament from which they were both forged rather than their ornamentation. Emalia was her father’s daughter, dark and sparkling, though it was true that many of her expressions were veering towards a perfection of her mother’s repertoire. The frostbitten calm of Isobel’s gaze met her daughter’s sky-blue radiance and the pair considered each other for a moment, as was so often the case of late. Not a day passed where this child did not present a newly emerged facet of herself. Isobel was starting to lose track of just what her three-year-old did and did not understand.
With a pat of her knee, she waited to be obeyed and then pulled the little girl onto her lap, handing her the letter.
“This is the man who is going to come and make sure your Father’s stupidity is erased. In exchange, he will offer to extend my training so that I, in turn, can provide you with the benefit of infallible expertise.”
She had never spoken down to the child, had never curbed her natural conversation to discount vocabulary deemed too sophisticated for an infant to comprehend. The notion was ridiculous, she was raising her successor, after all, not a dog. Emalia, for her part, took it in her stride and extracted from the explanation what mattered most.
“So you will teach me to be like you? And Daddy?”
“Not like Daddy, darling. Never like Daddy.”
A kiss planted into dark curls lingered as Isobel’s eyes sought the hearth and the embers beyond.
“Your father’s legacy is a mere example, Emalia, of what one shouldn’t do. Rorshak is of a different ilk. His continued existence is proof enough of that.”
“Besides,” her tone changed, now pulled back to seek out her daughter’s face, “he has children your age. Won’t that be fun?”
A somber, serious expression, full of pensive calculation, stared back at her. After a moment, Emalia sighed.
“All right, they can come. But they better not make fun of Lorcas, he’s very sensitive, you know.”
A long breath drawn through the nose curbed Isobel’s response, leaving only affectionate weariness in place of frustration.
“They will be restrained. Their life is not very different to your own, darling. You have seen their Father’s puppets, after all. I am sure your...pet...will not concern them.”
From the corner, where the light strained to reach, the shadows grunted.
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