Sitting with one leg crossed over the other, and his arms folded over his chest, Zuriel regarded the child as though he were a delegate from a neighboring empire, come to bargain for peace.
The child, imitating his posture, sat before him in the same manner, returning the gaze without wavering.
For long minutes, it seemed they were engaged in a most fearsome staring contest, where silence itself was dominion.
"You bear no semblance to me." Zuriel said at last, breaking the silence, yet retaining every bit of authority.
"We share the same hair," the child duly pointed out.
"One third of the empire shares that same hair color—it proves nothing." The child frowned as Zuriel continued. "Give me proof beyond doubt that you are mine."
Though he was certain he had spawned no children, the boy refused to leave, and Zuriel could neither abandon him outside, nor drag him back to his milking mother. Thus, he indulged him—for he very well knew how strong-headed a child his age could be.
"For one," the boy began, "Mother told me that my father was a gardener. Though she never gave me his name, she said he was red-haired."
He spoke with such certainty, like he had no doubt in his heart that the man before him was his father.
Yet Zuriel still caught it—those tiny hands clenched into tight fists, as though gripping on to the thinnest strand of hope. A fracture in his fearless bravado.
The actions of the boy reminded Zuriel of another child who was about the same age.
"Last night, when Damaris brought you in front of everyone, you said your name was Zuri, and that you were a gardener—just as my father, and you have hair like him too."
He paused and scanned the man before him, then nodded tk himself. "Mother also said my father was hugely built—and you are tall and broad."
"And?"
"A—and, and S—so you must be my father."
Zuriel could see the desperation upon the child's face now. It could no longer be hidden. For the boy to have left his mother in search of him, he must have longed dearly for a father.
"Boy, what is your name?"
"Peter," the boy answered.
"Peter, I am not your father." There was no gentler way to put it. "Aye, I am a gardener. My hair matches your own, and I am broad of build—but I am not your father."
"Proof," the boy suddenly said.
"What?"
"Give me proof beyond doubt that you are not my father!" That the boy had used his exact words against him drew a dry chuckle from Zuriel's lips.
Sharp boy, Zuriel thought.
"For one," Zuriel began, "to be your father, I must have met your mother before—and last night was the first time I laid eyes upon her."
For a moment, young Peter paused, deep in thought, trying to figure out the perfect comeback and when he had it, his downcast eyes shut back up. "What if you forgot you met her!"
Could it be that Goodwin's ways had rubbed off on the people he governed? They made him spend far too many words.
"Boy, I never forget a face." Zuriel said matter-of-factly.
Peter pressed on. "But you could have."
"Never."
"But—" His gaze fell, and his lips began to tremble. "But you have to be. Mary, and Caleb, and Jojo—they all have fathers."
The tremor in his voice grew stronger with every word, and the legs he had crossed to mimic Zuriel slowly fell apart.
"I—I want a father too."
He looked up at Zuriel, his brilliant blue eyes flooding with tears that could no longer be restrained, breaking free like a burst dam.
In silence, Zuriel watched the tears fall, the boys cries filling the once quiet cottage.
It was better this way. He had to cry now, that he might grow into a stronger man. He was already brave, as far as Zuriel could tell; a few tears would only harden him more.
Moments later, Peter—who had wept his heart out—sat with bread in hand and a cup of sweetened milk set upon the table.
"Oh, Mister, this is so good! Milk has never tasted thus before! Mother never puts honey in my milk!"
His eyes shone with a new glimmer, that it was impossible to believe he was the very same child that had bawled his eyes out just moments ago.
"I added sugar, not honey."
"Sugar! What is that? Is it sweeter than honey?"
"I do not believe it is."
"Oh, I think it is. I am telling you—it is. I love sugar, Mister."
"Good for you," Zuriel said dryly. "Dip the bread into the milk then eat."
Peter tilted his head. "Will it taste better?"
"Try it."
At his words, Peter broke his bread, dipped the edge into the milk, and brought it to his mouth.
Zuriel had thought it impossible for the boy's eyes to grow wider—but they did, and his round cheeks flushed crimson.
"Mister, are you certain you are not my father?" The boy asked again and Zuriel only shook his head. "Then are you by chance in need of a wife and son?"
The sudden question drew a laugh from Zuriel. Even if only for meeting this child, Zuriel felt as though his stay in Wisteria had not been in vain.
He would appoint the child as royal jester if he could.
"If you promise to give me this sugar, I promise to put in a good word for you with Mother." Royal jester indeed.
And just like that, Zuriel spent the remainder of his day with the boy named Peter—who had crashed into his home like he was the master of the place, accused him, wept, eaten his fill, and at some point, even dared to fall asleep.