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It is settled. Aras spies Poet coming in from outside and darts to greet him. They collide in the hallway. Aras wraps himself around Poet’s legs while Poet bends to scoop him up, so he can see my son’s hands as he signs with far more competence than I have learned.

Poet laughs and I catch how Jekka and Iggy feel as they watch on. Match it to the emotion expanding in my chest, and I know they understand. That they see how Poet is not my son’s father or another fun uncle. That he didn’t need empty space to matter to Aras because he carved out his own with nature and knowledge, warmth and wisdom, and he became that man here, on Moondust Farm.

Apparently, overeating makes my eyes burn now. I rise from the thick rug and slip away, finding the door that leads to the frost-covered porch.

I sink onto a cold bench surrounded by earthenware pots and roped lanterns. My watch is quiet, but I check it anyway. I also check the camera feeds to the farm we’ve left behind, because I’m not sure Poet will. He is good at worrying about things as they happen and not before.

I admire him.

I love him.

I miss him, but not for long.

He finds me on the porch. Brings me herbal tea that I can drink without calculating the effect it will have on me. We do not speak until I remember the key.

I drop it in his work-hardened palm.

He laughs. “Who gave you that?”

“Decoy. Seth. He didn’t tell me why.”

“He might not know. I bet Finch put him up to it.”

“She isn’t here.”

“Exactly.”

That should probably make more sense than it does. But my thoughts are derailed by everything Poet Whitlock. He’s wearing faded jeans and a flannel shirt. Somehow, even in winter and supposedly at rest, he has grass in his wheat-gold hair.

I pluck it free, that feeling from the car this morning returning full force and as enigmatic as it was then. “Aš tave myliu.”

Poet can lip read that—I’ve taught him by saying it over and over again. “I love you. And I can show you what the key’s for, if you like…but I need to ask you something first.”

“What is that, mielasis?”

“Aras asked me if he can sleep in the box bed in the room next to Ivy’s. It’s right by my parents—the kids have to go through their room to escape and my mum sleeps like a stray cat.”

“Of course. He can sleep where he wants.”

“What about if we weren’t here?”

“What do you mean?”

“The key.” Poet holds it up. “It’s for where I used to go when I lived here and the farm got too loud.”

“The cabin you told me about?”

“Yeah, I thought we could sleep there, but it’s not near the house. My parents would have to call you if Aras needed you in the night.”

There is little chance of that. Not here, after a day like this, with Iggy and Jekka so close. But still I say, “I will ask him.”

And predictably, Aras is okay with wherever I sleep, as long as Poet is with me and I promise to look out for wildfires on the fenlands around Moondust Farm.

I put him to bed. When he is asleep, we say goodnight to the Whitlocks and slip outside with Folk and Seth.

They disappear into the trees, to their own bolthole in the woods.

Poet takes my hand and leads me in the opposite direction. Towards the ocean, maybe, as the path starts to climb a little, I smell it in the air with the rough grass and gorse, as frost ebbs away and we walk together through the night, the ground soft with winter rain. The trees thin and the sky opens above us—the land opens into a wide sweep of salt marsh and sand.