The breeze stirred my hair, and a piece of a familiar song wafted around me. A woman’s voice, urging her daughter to sleep, sang the words of the maiden song like she’d sung it a thousand times.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
He is coming, do not hide.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
Let the king make you his bride.
I was careful with my words. I guarded them, used them prudently, and withheld them wisely. When I kissed Tiras and pressed my lips to his skin, I never marked him or left a wish behind. I’d learned how lethal a word could be. But tonight I sang the maiden song, liking the way the words fell from my mouth like tiny, white pebbles into the well of the world below me. My own daughter was coming soon. Gwyn, the old Teller, had predicted a girl. Tiras had sighed and muttered something about stubborn women, but joy limned his face, and his thoughts were ebullient.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
Wait for him, his heart is true.
Daughter, daughter, Jeru’s daughter,
‘Til the hour he comes for you.
The hour was nigh, and yet I waited for a restless king who still loved to fly. The shadows moved and shimmered, and from above the homes and trees to the east, I saw him coming, soaring, pale head and sooty wings barely discernible in the starlight. Then he was circling and descending, finally coming to rest on the low wall with a satisfied flutter. He didn’t change immediately, but folded his wings and drew close to me, tucking his beak like he was ashamed.
I brushed gentle fingers across his tufted breast and over his downy head, forgiving him. From his heart I heard a word, and it made me smile.
Home.
She was so small. The only thing large about her were her eyes, and they filled her face, dark and solemn, like the midnight sky. Little bones, small features, a pointy chin, and elfin ears made her appear delicate, almost fragile, like a tiny bird. Her black hair—the same shade as her father’s—was silky and fine and felt like feathers brushing my face when I held her close, furthering the comparison.
She was my little Wren. The name had entered my mind the moment I held her in my arms, and I accepted it, acknowledging it from the Father of all Words, trusting the name was meant for her.
“What are you doing, Wren?”
“I’m making poppets,” she answered. Her little tongue peeked between her teeth, which happened whenever she attempted something difficult. She had a pile of ill-formed poppets beside her on the floor, and she wrapped a long piece of string around another one, creating a head, a torso, and four misshapen limbs. I crouched down beside her and picked one up.
“Tell me about them,” I urged.
“This one loves to sing.” She pointed at the lumpy doll in my hand. “And this one loves to dance—”
“Like a certain little Wren I know,” I interrupted tenderly.
“Yes. Like me. And this one loves to run.” She held up the smallest one.
“And this one?” I pointed to the poppet she’d just finished.
“This one is a prince.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The Prince of Poppets. And he can fly . . . like Daddy.”
“Without wings?”
“Yes. You don’t need wings to fly,” she chirped.
“What do you need, Daughter?” I asked softly.
She looked up at me, her big, black eyes alight with knowledge, and she smiled.
“Words.”