“What’s the something that tells you that?” Claire asked. This was the most words she’d ever shared with her father in succession.
“He told me that. Why do you think I plan to give him your hand?” She must have looked perplexed, because he raised his brows at her. “What’s wrong?”
“He told you what?” Surely he hadn’t told her father that he loved her. That would be ludicrous.
“I asked him if he loves you, and he answered in the affirmative.”
“Why would he do that?” Claire whispered. But a little piece of her thrilled at the idea.
“Because he does?” He heaved a sigh. “Claire, know this—it’s not easy for a human man to accept magic. He has accepted it and is aware of it, and he’s aware of the world from whence you came. And he loves you on top of all that. You couldn’t ask for more.”
“Was it hard for you to accept Mother?” Claire sat down on a garden bench, and he dropped down beside her. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees.
“It was difficult. What was even more difficult was watching what your mother went through. She lost her wings. She lost her homeland. She lost all her family.”
“She gave up her children,” Claire whispered. She laid a hand on her belly. The very thought nearly broke her in pieces.
“She never gave up a bloody thing,” her father snapped. “We never gave up any of our children. They were taken from us. That’s a completely different situation. Completely.” His face reddened with anger.
“It was a choice you made,” Claire went on. “You knew the consequences. If you had fae children, you’d lose them. And you bet on love anyway.”
“Your mother tried everything to keep you. Sophia’s love for music—that was so she could find your mother later in life. Your love for painting—who do you think hid the magic paintbrush in your bedding after you were born? And that little painting of the door. Dulcis domus was written over it. Sweet home.”
He jabbed a finger at Claire again. “You were our heart’s desire. We thought with the paintbrush and the painting, you could walk right into our lives. The fae took our memories when they took you, but we left a way for you to get back to us, believing we would know you, no matter what.”
What? Wait just a minute. That was what the words over the door said? Sweet home? Her father had painted it and given her a magical paintbrush that would lead her back to them.
Tears pricked at the backs of Claire’s lashes. “You did try.”
Lord Ramsdale—no, her father—got to his feet and pulled her up, hugging her tightly against him. “We tried. We failed. But it finally did work. You’re here now. And so are we. There’s still time. Don’t waste so much energy hating us, Claire.”
Claire inhaled, a deep cleansing breath. She needed a moment to process this. “Could I have a moment, please?” she asked. “I need to think.” She scrubbed at her forehead.
“Come and find me when you’re ready to talk?”
Claire nodded and he left.
Claire needed to put the facts together. She needed to compile all this information into tidy little boxes and stack them on her shelves. She needed to understand.
She’d walked through the door of that painting just because it was there and she needed to get away. She hadn’t seen the magical paintbrush in years, and it had been an escape. What was baffling was that the sign over the door read, “Sweet home,” particularly since it had led her to Finn.
He was her heart’s desire? No. Couldn’t be. She barely knew him at that point, even though she already carried his child. He couldn’t possibly be her heart’s desire. He was just a man—and a human man at that.
Could it be that her parents had lived in a completely different world than the one she was in now? With the changes in the land of the fae, perhaps there could be a future for humans who married fae and produced offspring that didn’t include having those offspring taken away. Could it be that simple? It couldn’t possibly be, not with everything her parents had gone through, but she had to look at Sophia and the duke. They had a child on the way and they were not afraid of losing it, not in the least.
She laid a hand on her belly, which was just beginning to round with the new life growing inside her. Since the beginning of this journey when she’d found out about the baby, she’d assumed she would have to relinquish a human child to Finn’s care, but maybe that wasn’t the case. Maybe she could be free to love this child, no matter what its nature. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe not.
Claire wouldn’t get her hopes up. But the very thought of Finn loving her made her heart soar all the way to the clouds and back. Hope bloomed within her chest, swelling inside her, and threatened to rack her small frame. She relished the feeling of utter relief. What if it wasn’t true?
Goodness, there was so much to think about. Did it all come down to faith? Did it all come down to the Unpardonable Errors? Maybe the Unpardonable Errors needed to be rewritten. Maybe that would relieve her of this feeling of rocking on open sea with nothing more than a plank of wood beneath her.
The door to her heart’s desire. What was her bloody heart’s desire? She didn’t have a clue. But then she laid a hand on her stomach again and felt for the new life that grew there. Could this child have everything she didn’t? Could this child have two loving parents? Could this child move from one world to the other? Who knew?
The biggest question to be answered was: Could Claire accept that this was going to be her new life? She didn’t care about her own happiness. But her child’s happiness mattered more than the next breath she would take.
Ronald suddenly emerged on the garden path. The gnome had a way of insinuating himself into family matters. He’d been with the family for a very long time. And though he often vexed her, she gazed at him fondly. He was the only one who knew about her night with Finn. And he hadn’t told anyone. “Ronald.” She acknowledged him with a nod of her head, and he stepped out of the foliage.
“Miss Thorne,” he said with a bow. “I trust you are well.”