Wheeling Gull Isle they are two alone

And so she wept, and he thought she might crumble away. Melt like sand beside him, washed by her tears. He soaked them up as best he could with the paltry coat hanging loose from too-narrow a chest, too-sharp a shoulder.

When she eased, spoke, Mou found himself aggrieved in his own way. Sad and accepting, because he knew it to be true. As much as he wished to covet these children they were not his; blood-bound yes, the product of a friend and of a family that had denounced him, and not his. Not theirs — not really.

I will tell him. He states, carefully. When the time is right. Which should be now, he thinks; but also, he worries — when is right? When they are old enough to make the choice between the parents they know and the man on the outside? Or should they take the choice from the children entirely and give them up, choosing to splinter their patchwork family on purpose? Do not worry, Mou croons against her neck.