“I know you, you see. You were such a mischievous, tiny thing, always trying to yank this”—he motioned to the circlet that he wore—“off of my head every time I carried you. But I could never stay mad for long because you’d blink up at me with your mother’s eyes and smile her smile . . . I would know you anywhere. Another nineteen years could have passed before we found each other again and my heart would still tell me that you were mine. Do you not remember your amya at all, even if only a little bit?”
