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Morgan is my name, and its origin true at least—“sea-born” by way of the Welsh tongue.
My mother was devoted to the chapel, but neither salvation nor damnation concerned my father much; his habits were informal, chancy even, harking back to his people in Ireland, who knelt to the gospels but whose hearts, oftentimes, still rode with the Tuath Dé.
“True power comes from freedom, and the ability to survive what befalls us.” He had sent the peregrine up again to wait on, though I saw now it was us who waited on her. “There’s nothing keeping her here other than the respect she’s been shown.” “Every return to the glove is a courtesy, not a right,” I agreed.
“So then you know,” he said. “I love you and I never stopped. I’ve thought of nothing but you since you returned—and before that. Since ever I saw you.” He met my eyes with a fierce, needful expression I had not seen before. “In truth, Morgan, I can no longer remember when I haven’t thought of you. It’s as if you’ve been my whole life.”
