#Chapter 114: Small Steps

Kaine I have faced down rogue wolves and led men into ambushes in the dark and kept my voice level while arrows flew. I have stood before the full Court and argued law with a woman who wanted me dead, and none of it—not a single moment—prepared me for standing in front of a four-year-old's bedroom door with absolutely nothing useful to say. The door is small and painted pale blue with a drawing tacked to it at child height—a wolf or possibly a very large dog, surrounded by what might be flowers or might be suns. I straighten my collar, realize I am straightening my collar for a child who does not care about my collar, and drop my hands. Knock, Rafe says. He has been saying it for the better part of a minute, and his patience is wearing thin in a way I can feel at the base of my skull. I knock, and after a pause I hear small footsteps before the door opens three inches and Clara looks up at me with an expression I cannot read. She has a wooden wolf tucked under one arm, and her da