To bury a newling wasn’t considered as bad as burying a child. Though that was a lie. He and Matalina had lost their entire birthing the year they moved into the church, and Matalina hadn’t had any more since, thanks to his wish for sterility. It had probably extended Mattie’s life, but he missed the soft sounds newlings made and the pleasure he took in thinking up names as they grasped his finger and demanded another day of life. Newlings, hell. They were children, every one precious.

Jenks’s gaze landed squarely on Vincet, assessing him. Thirteen, with a lifetime of responsibility on him already. Jenks’s own short span had never bothered him—a fast childhood giving way to grief and heartache—until he’d seen the other side, the long adolescence and even longer life of the lunkers around them. It was so unfair. He’d listen.

And if he was listening, then he should probably make Vincet feel at home. As Rachel did when people knocked on her door, afraid and helpless.

A flush of uncertainty made his wings hum. “We’re entertaining,” he told his kids with a firmness he’d dredged up from somewhere, and they looked at one another, wings drooping and at a loss. Pixies didn’t tolerate another on their land unless marriage was being discussed, much less invite him into their diggings.

Smiling, Jenks gestured for Vincet to sit on the winter-musty cushions, trying to remember what he’d seen Rachel do when interviewing clients. “Um, give me his sword, and get me a pot of honey,” he said, and Jerrimatt gasped.

“H-honey…” the youngster stammered, and Jenks took the wooden-handled blade from Jhan. The fairy steel was evidence of a past battle won, probably before Vincet had left home.

“Tink’s burned her cookies, go!” Jenks exclaimed, waving at them. “Vincet wants my help. I don’t think he’s going to run me through. Give your dad an ounce of credit, will you?”

His cursing was familiar, and knowing everything was okay, they dove for the main tunnel, chattering like mad.