Frederick’s attention, however, had snagged on a different detail.
Near the edge of the clearing stood a smaller child, watching in silence rather than joining the noise. Dark hair fell unevenly about a stubborn jaw, and through it ran a narrow streak of white, bright against the black like a blade of moonlight.
Frederick’s breath stilled.
He had seen that mark every morning of his life in polished steel and river water.
The child’s chin lifted slightly under his scrutiny, defiant rather than shy.
Odd, Frederick thought distantly.
Before he could examine the resemblance further, Lennox returned to his side.
“If the Spáewife truly sees the future,” Lennox muttered, “perhaps she will inform us whether she’s a witch or merely a dramatic old woman with too much salt.”
Frederick’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Mind yer tongue.”
“Oh, come now,” Lennox continued lightly. “These villages always have one. A crone muttering curses. Blaming crops on spirits. Frightening half the children into behaving.”
A sharp thud interrupted him.
Lennox jerked forward slightly, looking down.
The dark-haired child stood there, foot still planted firmly against Lennox’s boot.
“Daenae call Granny Erin names,” the child snapped, voice clear and fierce. “She isnae a witch.”
Lennox blinked, then looked scandalized. “Did that wee warrior just kick me?”
“Aye,” the child replied without hesitation.
Frederick felt laughter surge unexpectedly in his chest, absurd and sudden. He pressed his lips together to keep it contained.
Bold and reckless.
The child turned then, glare shifting upward to meet Frederick’s gaze.
And the world narrowed.
Green.
Not merely green. Bright. Sharp. Alive with challenge.
For a heartbeat, the clearing vanished. The years between collapsed like rotten wood.
He had seen those eyes once before across a tavern hearth, framed by freckles and firelight. Eyes that had looked at him without fear. Eyes that had followed him up narrow stairs. Eyes that had haunted him at inconvenient hours ever since.
The resemblance struck him harder than the white streak of hair.
A strange, gnawing sensation unfurled low in his gut. Recognition without context. Instinct without proof.
He crouched slowly so they were eye to eye.
Up close, he saw the stubborn set of the small mouth. Dirt smudged across one cheek. A faint nick along the chin, likely from climbing where climbing had not been permitted.
“What is yer name?” he asked evenly.
The child hesitated only a fraction. “Jamie.”