Qeya River kuugaamiut

No husband. No need. 

A rare smile broke Anselm’s scarred face. Then you vould make perfect vife. If only because in Anselm’s estimation, a desperate wife was worse than anything. 

He noticed the subtle bristle, the passive way her eyes lingered — and he wondered if she was not so different than him. He had never wanted a wife. And yet, he’d nearly had one — if only by his own stupid fumblings. 

Her question brought a sharp lift of his gaze. It was pointed, that inquiry — and yet so deliciously direct he could not fault her for it. For the boy. Vhy do you?