“There were times when that was obvious,” she observed, but before I wondered what I had unwittingly shown her of myself, she added, “And now I have it, like some disease, and it means that I am ever in service to my queen. And to King Dutiful, when he succeeds her. I don't suppose you can even imagine what a burden that could be to me.”

“I have some inkling of it,” I replied quietly. Then, when she continued to sit unmoving before me, I asked her, “Should not you be on your way? Daylight is the best time for travel.”

“We have just met, and you are so anxious for us to be parted.” She looked down at the ground beneath her feet. Suddenly, she was Nettle from our dreams as she shook her head and said, “This is not at all how I imagined our first meeting would be. I thought you would be happy to see me, and we would laugh and be friends.” She gave a small cough and then admitted shyly, “A long time ago, when I first had dreams about you and the wolf, I used to imagine that we would really meet some day. I pretended you would be my age and handsome, in a wolfish way, and find me pretty. That was silly, wasn't it?”

“I'm sorry to have disappointed you,” I said carefully. “I definitely find you pretty, however.” She gave me a look that said that such compliments from an aging guardsman made her uncomfortable. Her illusions about me had made a barrier I had not expected. I came closer to her, and then crouched down beside her to look up into her eyes. “Could we, perhaps, begin this again?” I put out a hand to her and said, “My name is Shadow Wolf. And Nettle, you cannot imagine how many years I have longed to meet you.” Without warning, my throat closed tight. I hoped I would not get teary. My daughter hesitated, and then set her hand in mine. It was slender, like a lady's hand should be, but brown from the sun and her palm against mine was callused. The touch strengthened our Skill-bond and it was as if she squeezed my heart rather than my fingers. Even if I had wanted to hide what I felt from her, I could not have done so. I think it breached some wall she had held.

She looked up into my face, on a level with hers now. Our eyes met, and suddenly her lower lip trembled like a baby's. “My papa is dead!” she stammered out. “My papa is dead, and I don't know what to do! How can we go on? Chivalry is such a boy still, and Mama knows nothing of the horses. Already, she speaks of selling them off and moving to a town, saying she cannot abide to be where my father so emphatically is not!” She choked and then gasped, “It's all going to fall apart. I'm going to fall apart! I can't be as strong as everyone expects me to be. But I have to.” She drew herself up straight and faced me. “I have to be strong,” she repeated, as if that would turn her bones to iron. It seemed to work. No tears. Hers was a desperate courage. I caught her in my arms and held her tight. For the first time in her life or mine, I held my daughter. Her cropped hair was bristly against my chin and all I could think was how much I loved her. I opened myself to her and let it flood from me into her. I felt her shock, both at the depth of my feeling and that a relative stranger would touch her so. I tried to explain.

“I will look after you,” I told her. “I'll look after all of you. I promised . . . I promised your papa I would do that, look after you and your little brothers. And I will.”

“I don't think you can,” she said. “Not as he did.” But trying to gentle her words, she added, “I do believe you will try. But there is no one like my papa in the world. No one.”

For a moment longer, she let me hold her. Then, gently, she disentangled herself from me. Subdued, she said, “My horse will be saddled and waiting. And the guardsman the Queen assigned me will be there, also.” She took a huge breath, held it, then slowly let it out. “I have to go. There will be a lot to do at home. Mama cannot manage the babies as well as she used to with Papa gone. I'm needed there.” She found her kerchief and dabbed unshed tears from her eyes.

“Yes. I'm sure you are.” I hesitated, and then said, “There was a message, from your father. You may think it odd or frivolous, but it was important to him.”

She looked at me quizzically.

“When Malta comes into season, Ruddy is to stud her.”

She lifted a hand to her mouth and gave a strangled little laugh. When she caught her breath, she said, “Ever since the mare came to us, he and Chivalry have argued about that. I'll tell him.” She took two steps away from me and repeated, “I'll tell him.” Then she whirled and was gone.

I stood for a moment, feeling bereft. Then a sad smile spread over my face. I sat down on the bench and looked out over the Women's Garden. It was summer and the air was rich with the fragrance of both herbs and blossoms, and yet the scent of my daughter's hair was still in my nostrils and I savored it. I stared into the distance over the top of the lilac tree and wondered. It was going to take me longer to get to know my daughter than I had thought. Perhaps there would never be a good time to tell her that I was her father. That piece of information did not seem as important as it once had. Instead, it seemed more important that I find a way to come into their lives without causing pain or discord. It wasn't going to be easy. But I would do it. Somehow.