She had told him about the midnight. But I wasn’t the only one who knew the fabric making up the man I called father. He’d known himself well enough to protect Isolde. From himself. The thought was so heartbreaking I had to look away from him, afraid of what I might see if I met his eyes. He was the only one who’d loved her more than I had. And the pain of losing her was fresh and sharp, knife-edged between us.
