Iron Hands

A gentle breeze rustled the curtains of Arella Reinhardt’s bedroom window, carrying with it the familiar, earthy scent of a cool autumn night, as Thomas pulled her violet nightgown over her upstretched arms. She loosed her long, dark hair from her collar with a flick of her wrists, sending it spilling down the back of her nightgown, then dropped her hands to her sides with a quick plat as they slapped against the floral-printed fabric. Thomas took a crouched position beside her as she did so, scanning over the books that were lined up on her bookshelf.

“Alright, little lady,” he said, his eyes bobbing from one title to the next, “what story is it going to be tonight? The Grumpy Hedgehog? Stormy Sam? The Unexpected Case of Marmot Higglesby?” Thomas marched his fingers like little legs across the tops of the books as he looked expectantly at Arella. She said nothing but had her eyes cast down in apparent dissatisfaction.

“What is it?” he asked, resting the palm of his hand on The Trouble With Toggs, and Other Assorted Children’s Tales. Arella clasped her hands behind her back and twisted back and forth slightly, as though she were reluctant to speak.

“I’m tired of those stories,” she said sheepishly, in a slightly hushed tone. Her cheeks flushed a bit, as though the mere utterance of the words was a source of embarrassment for her. Thomas lifted his hand from the books and placed it against his cheek, drumming it with his finger a few times in contemplation. Although Arella had been adjusting well to her new living arrangements, it seemed that she was still a bit uneasy about expressing herself directly. Thomas had anticipated this, but he wondered if there might be something he could do about it.

“How about this, then,” he said as an idea suddenly came to him. If it worked, he may just be able to kill two birds with one stone. “I’ll tell you a brand new story. One you’ve never heard before.” Arella looked up at his smiling face in curiosity.

“What kind of story?” she asked, intrigued. Thomas made a broad, sweeping motion with his arm.

“It’s an epic tale of adventure about a princess and a dragon,” he said in dramatic tones. Arella’s mouth widened a bit in excitement.

“Is it a true story?” she asked eagerly, enthused. Thomas nodded as he placed his hand on his knee.

“True as can be,” he said, a coy smirk nearly betraying him. Not that he was lying, exactly—but the concepts of metaphor and allegory would most likely be lost on a six-year-old child, so he decided it was best to let sleeping dogs lie for the time being. Arella’s eyes sparkled and she quickly dashed to her bed, impatiently motioning for Thomas to come tuck her in. He stood up with a grin and walked over to her, pulling the blanket across her and stuffing the fringes tightly under the mattress. He lowered himself beside her and placed his arm around her shoulders as she kicked her feet excitedly, the blanket thumping as it was pulled taut.

“Let’s see, now,” Thomas said, considering how best to start. “Once upon a time—”

He was suddenly cut off by a groan from Arella. He looked down in confusion, and—although her face was half-covered by the blanket, her fingers gripping it on either side of her cheeks—he could tell by the crease in her forehead and the arch in her brow that she was scowling.

“What?” he asked, confused. Arella let out a slight sigh.

“That’s how every story starts, papa,” she said in a vexed, albeit muffled, voice. Thomas thoughtfully studied her a moment. It was true that it was a terribly cliche way to start a story, but he hadn’t expected her to know that—or, at least, he hadn’t expected her to object to it. She really was an incredibly bright little girl, but perhaps he had still underestimated her. If he wasn’t careful, the veil of metaphor might be torn after all. That would ultimately be a good thing, but it would spoil the mood if it happened too soon. Thomas made a mental note to tread carefully.

“You’re right,” he said, rubbing at his five o’clock shadow. “Okay, let’s try for something a bit more original.”

Silvery light glistened in the frosty night air, cascading from the face of Luna like tears from heaven, bathing the kingdom of Yule in an otherworldly glow. The king and queen of Yule stood together in their bedchamber, looking out across the winter-swept land, and mourned. It was a prosperous kingdom and one which they had ruled benevolently for many years. They had been blessed by much good fortune during their reign and truly felt that to ask for anything more would be self-indulgent. However, despite all their blessings, the one thing the king and queen wanted most of all—something that they would gladly trade their kingdom for—was a child.

The neighboring kingdoms lamented that the king and queen of Yule did not have an heir, but their words of comfort and condolence merely cut into their hearts deeper, for they reminded them of the great burden they carried each day. Without a prince or a princess of their own, their prosperity and good fortune felt hollow, for it seemed to be fleeting, and ultimately in service of nothing.

Thus, on this night, as the king and queen stood together, awash in the silvery light of the moon, they were amazed to discover an answer to their prayers: not far from the kingdom was a fierce dragon—one which had ensnared a young girl. If the king and queen could find a way to best the dragon, they could rescue the girl and take her to live with them.

The thought of doing battle with such a ferocious beast was a daunting one, but the king was sure that they would be victorious: for the king had been blessed with hands of iron, which could not be shaken, and the queen had been blessed with hands of velvet, which could soften even the hardest stone. Together, there had never been a foe that could stand against them. It was thus with confidence that the king and queen rode out to confront the dragon the next day.

As they approached the lair of the beast, their resolve was tested, as they were met with a dragon that had not one, but four ferocious heads. (Arella gasped quietly at this, pulling the blanket up hard against the underside of her nose. Thomas merely smirked out of the side of his mouth not facing his daughter.) The king grasped the queen’s hand; as the touch of velvet softened him, and the grip of iron strengthened her, the two knew that they had nothing to fear. They approached the dragon without hesitation and demanded that it free the girl.

The dragon howled with laughter from its many heads but looked curiously at the couple who unflinchingly met its stony gaze. It considered their show of tenacity and decided that it would be willing to part with the child, but only if they were able to meet a series of demands. They asked what the dragon would have them do, and the first head leered down at them, licking its lips. It was a ravenous beast, but the dragon fed not on the flesh of animals nor the stalks of plants, but only on gold.

The king and queen understood the demand and agreed to return with a cartload of riches. They rode back to their kingdom and emptied their coffers, piling every gold coin they had into a large cart for the dragon to consume. (In truth, the cost had been fairly minimal, but Thomas figured it couldn’t hurt to exaggerate a little for the sake of the story.) When they returned to the dragon, the first head swept down onto the cart and swallowed the entire load of gold in one avaricious gulp, contentedly belching a great flame into the air and lying down with a sigh.

With the first head satisfied, the second moved in to take its place. Its eyes were sharper than the first’s, and it studied the king and queen carefully before speaking. It told them that they had the appearance of royalty, but it could not be certain they were not merely knaves playing at it. In order to assuage its concerns, and to prove themselves, it thus demanded that it be allowed to observe them in their kingdom for several months.

This was a much more daunting task than the previous one. Though the king and queen were sure that they would not falter, the dragon’s gaze was piercing, and they knew they could not afford a single error. To ensure that the challenge was completed to the dragon’s satisfaction, they knew that they would need more than just a firm resolve: they would need assistance.

Before accepting the dragon’s request, the king and queen traveled to nearby kingdoms—kingdoms that were ruled by their friends and family. When they had explained the situation and gained as many allies as they could, they returned to the dragon and invited it into their kingdom. Even under the unwavering, watchful eye of the dragon, the king and queen knew that they would be protected: supported by the ones who cared for them most—for any deficiency of theirs would be covered wholly by the words and actions of their loved ones. Once again, the king and queen had nothing to fear.

After many months, the second head let out a satisfied roar and relaxed beside the first. The king and queen heaved a sigh of relief; though they knew they would not fail, the second head’s trial had been an arduous one. As the third head reared up, the king and queen once more clasped hands, bracing themselves for whatever might come next.

The dragon instructed them to return with it to its lair, where it rummaged through its hoard of treasure, apparently searching for something. At last, it emerged with a great tome, bound in leather and filled with thousands of pages. It dropped the tome at the feet of the king and queen, but as they looked through it, they were perplexed to find that all of the pages were blank.

This was their next challenge, the third head instructed. There was a great, towering golem in the forest to the south—one whose blood was black as the moonless night. The king and queen would need to shed its blood and record proof in the tome. The king asked the dragon how this might be done. The dragon explained that the tome was magical and would drink each drop of blood that the monster spilled. However, one drop would not be sufficient: only once every single page of the tome was covered would the dragon be satisfied.

The king and queen looked down at the massive tome in disbelief. To fill those thousands of pages would require a golem of tremendous size. Worse still, golems were beasts of stone who did not bleed easily. To fill even a single page would be a monumental task. The corners of the dragon’s mouth turned up in a devilish grin as it added one more caveat: unlike the previous head, this one would not allow the king and queen to seek any assistance. If they wished to pass the trial, they would have to fill the tome alone.

The king and queen looked at each other with concern for a moment as the dragon let out a raucous laugh. It asked if they would like to resign their task and abandon the girl. Upon hearing this, the king and queen stared the dragon down, their determination more apparent than ever. They would do as the dragon asked, and it would be forced to acknowledge their worth. It simply howled with laughter as the king and queen picked up the tome and mounted their horses.

As they traveled through the southern forest, they suddenly heard a sound like a great roar and saw the sky fill with birds fleeing in all directions except one. They followed the sound—the direction that the birds dared not fly—and soon came upon the golem. It towered like a monolith far above the forest’s canopy, its stony skin glimmering in the sunlight like fine obsidian. It seemed to little notice as the king and queen approached, and as the king struck out with his iron fist, it merely bounced away with a hollow clang.

As the king prepared to strike the beast again, the queen stepped in and stopped him. In order to draw blood, she explained, it would do no good to merely chip away at the golem’s surface. Instead, the queen placed her velvet hand against the beast, and soon its stony skin had softened to reveal a patch of tender flesh. The king nodded as the queen pulled her hand away and swiped at the beast again, this time sending a great mass of black blood splattering onto the tome.

The golem let out a pained howl and began to shift, the weight of its movements sending tremors through the ground. In almost no time at all, it had moved far away, leaving a swath of leveled trees in its wake. The king and queen looked at the tome and saw that they had only managed to fill a few pages. Judging by the sounds it had made, it would be hours before they reached the monster again. If they continued like this, they would never manage to fill the rest of the tome.

It was at this point that the queen made another suggestion: instead of taking great swipes out of the beast all at once, the king could make small incisions—ones that would yield only a little blood at a time, but would be too little for the monster to notice. Working in that way, the behemoth would slumber peacefully, and the king and queen would be able to fulfill the dragon’s request with ease. The king agreed to the plan, and the two set off once more, better prepared for what awaited them.

Though it still took many tiring days (Thomas’ hand started aching at just the thought of filling out another damned form), the king and queen were ultimately victorious and returned triumphantly to the dragon. It looked in disbelief as it flipped through the pages of the tome, but when it saw that they were all black, it reluctantly growled in acquiescence, and the third head dropped down to join the other two. The king and queen had no fears now; no matter what the fourth head demanded of them, there was no chance that they could lose.

As the final head took its place to meet them, the king and queen were surprised to discover that it had a much different bearing than the other three: while they had been intimidating and cold, there was a gentle look in the fourth head’s eyes. It apologized for the behavior of the other heads, congratulating the couple for enduring their trials. In truth, it explained, the dragon did not wish to keep the girl forever. However, it had seen many oafs and brutes throughout its life, and so it wanted only to ensure that the girl would be well cared for in the future. To this end, its request was a much simpler one: the king and queen needed only to spend time with the girl so the dragon could observe how they interacted.

(Though Arella had interjected with numerous questions and comments throughout the course of the story—asking about the meaning of certain words or remarking on certain events—Thomas noted that she had become stone-faced and silent here. She was either thoroughly invested or she had begun to put the pieces together. In either case, Thomas could only continue on, trying to keep the story engaging.)

At first, the girl was apprehensive. When the king and queen spoke with her, she hid her face or covered her eyes. Though they were afraid that the dragon would be troubled by this, it reassured them. The girl was shy at first, it explained. It would most likely take several visits before she began to open up to them. The king and queen understood that, like the previous trials, this was not something they could force through sheer determination. In order to earn the girl’s trust, they would have to be willing to move forward at her pace, rather than their own.

The king and queen continued to visit the girl at regular intervals, spending a bit longer with her each time. As she became accustomed to their presence, she began to share more about herself with them. The couple learned that she was a very smart young girl with a keen interest in learning, spending as much time reading or being read to as she could. She was very sensitive to other people’s feelings and had developed a generous and caring spirit. She had a particular fondness for nature and had even begun learning to tend her own garden.

The dragon seemed pleased with the progress and was at last making preparations for the couple to take the girl to live in their kingdom. Though it had been a grueling journey, the king and queen were elated, for it seemed as though all of their great effort would finally be rewarded. However, fate is rarely so kind, and as their good fortune seemed all but assured, the queen was suddenly struck with a terrible curse, falling into a slumber so deep she would never awaken. The king was stricken with grief as he held his queen’s hand one final time, the softness of her velvet touch no longer easing his cold, iron grasp.

As the neighboring kingdoms mourned for the king’s great loss, he returned to the dragon with the news. The fourth head was saddened by this turn of events, but without a queen to temper the king, it simply could not entrust the girl to him. The king was devastated anew and pleaded with the dragon to give him a chance. It again refused. In his desperation, the king readied his iron hands for combat, telling the dragon that he would not back down. At this, the other three heads rose up against him, giving him a stern warning that, should he not relent, it would consume him. Unwilling to acquiesce, the king dove into the dragon’s gaping maw, allowing himself to be swallowed whole.

The inside of the dragon was like a labyrinth, and the king wandered in darkness for many days, trying to find some vital spot to strike at. However, each swipe with his iron hands was met with resistance in equal measure. It seemed as though there was no hope of bringing down the dragon after all, and as the king was on the verge of giving up, he suddenly found himself in the presence of something warm: the dragon’s heart.

Thomas paused here and reflected on the events that had transpired, giving careful consideration to what he should say next. Arella had her eyes glued to Thomas’ face in breathless anticipation.

“Well?” she eventually asked, uncovering her mouth slightly. “Did the king attack the dragon’s heart?” Thomas looked down at her with a pensive and distant look in his eye, then gave her a gentle, if slightly sad, smile.

“No,” he said, stroking her hair. “Something much more surprising happened.”

A light smattering of clouds did little to abate the intensity of the noonday sun over the Sisters of Mercy Convent. Sister Claire shielded her eyes with her one free hand, her other being occupied by a bundle of papers and folders, as she stepped out into the courtyard. Though the surrounding foliage had begun to take on the reds and ambers of fall, the air was stagnant with the pervasive heat of summer, as though it were clawing at the earth in one final and desperate push against the relentless advance of autumn.

As her eyes adjusted to the daylight, Sister Claire began her trek along the brick-laid path through the courtyard and towards the annex a few dozen meters away. Although originally used for storage, the sisters had converted the old building into a classroom, opening a private school for foster children; the convent had a long history with the county’s adoption board, and many of the nuns, including Sister Claire, had degrees in psychology and family therapy. Although the older children frequently elected to attend public school, the younger ones, who nearly always suffered from significant emotional or developmental disorders, benefited greatly from the personalized education that the sisters offered.

The school was only one facet of the convent’s involvement with the local adoption agencies, of course. Many of the nuns did volunteer work, assisting prospective parents with preparing their home studies or working with the children themselves to prepare for their new homes. The latter was what Sister Claire took the most joy in, and she had served as a guardian ad litem for a number of foster children over the years. Most recently, she had been working with a sweet young girl named Arella. Sister Claire had been so sure that the adoption board had found her the perfect home, but it seemed as though God had other plans.

It was a strange and surreal experience, attending the funeral of a woman who had been so close to adopting. Indeed, it was a shock that she had not yet entirely processed, as cases like this were completely unheard of. One of the central purposes of the home study was to screen out individuals with life-threatening conditions. According to her submitted physical, Gloria Reinhardt had a pre-existing case of atrial fibrillation, for which she was taking blood thinners. That in itself was not a particularly remarkable or worrisome condition for someone in their early twenties, and because it was being treated, it had been hand-waved.

Sister Claire reflected on the wisdom of that decision now. Although her perception was entirely colored by hindsight, she wondered if, perhaps, the agency had been too lax in its assessment. Could a more thorough examination have uncovered the threat lurking within Gloria’s own arterial walls? If a follow-up exam had been requested, might she still be alive?

It was unlikely, she inevitably concluded. After all, it wasn’t the AF that had killed the poor young woman, but an intracerebral hemorrhage. Even knowing that the blood thinners posed an increased risk of stroke, it would have been unreasonable at best to demand a follow-up exam or deny the home study outright. The chances of a young adult suddenly suffering an ICH were remote in the extreme. There wasn’t a doctor on Earth who would have seen it coming. Still, Sister Claire couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of guilt over Gloria’s death. She had told the young woman’s husband as much at the funeral, but he had said everything she was thinking now: that there was nothing that could have been done.

As Sister Claire walked in silence, reflecting on the events that were still terribly fresh in her mind, she noticed a hunched-over figure sitting at the bench in front of a statue of the Blessed Mother. Upon closer inspection, she was surprised to see that it was Thomas Reinhardt himself. She stopped for a moment and looked at him. Although he was facing away from her, his posture clearly indicated that he was in distress—understandably so. She looked down at the bundle of papers under her arm. Although she had some work to do before the afternoon school session started, she considered that she had enough time to spare him a sympathetic ear for a few minutes, assuming he was in the mood to talk.

Thomas did not look up as Sister Claire set the papers down and took a seat beside him. His eyes were fixed, unwavering, on the image of Mary before him. Sister Claire knew that there was a reasonable chance that he resented her; after all, she had been the one who had delivered the news that the agency wanted to pull the plug on the adoption in the wake of Gloria’s death. It was something entirely expected, as there was a strict policy against single-father adoptions, but she would never forget the devastation on his face when he had heard.

After a moment of reflective silence, Sister Claire finally spoke.

“How are you doing, Thomas?”

Thomas only grunted, the sound emanating from his throat falling somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. Sister Claire knew that it was a rather obtuse question, but she needed to gauge how reciprocal he might be in a brief discussion. His immediate response did not give her hope.

“You understand why the agency has decided to cancel the adoption,” she continued, watching his features as she spoke. Thomas’ eyes were dry and bloodshot and seemed to bulge slightly from his skull, as though threatening to burst and leak down his face like two runny yolks. His brow furrowed slightly at her words, but his eyes remained open, staring blindly ahead.

“No,” Thomas said, his voice cracking slightly, “as a matter of fact, I don’t. From where I’m sitting, it seems as though the adoption board has decided to kick me while I’m down. Or perhaps I’m blaming the wrong people. It’s just protocol, right? It’s just the miserable red tape of bureaucracy. After all, if the process had gone quicker, Arella would already be my daughter, right? It was just bad timing. I can’t blame the board for that.”

There was a deep, trembling anger behind Thomas’ words that concerned Sister Claire. She had experienced this kind of anger before, and she knew invariably where it led.

“You blame God, don’t you?” she asked with a flat, matter-of-fact intonation. Thomas said nothing for a long moment, then cast his eyes down at the earth for the first time.

“What did I do?” he asked quietly, his voice almost pleading. “What horrible sin have I committed that’s befitting this kind of punishment?” Sister Claire merely shook her head.

“You can’t think of it that way,” she said. “This was not a punishment.”

“Then why?” Thomas asked pointedly, looking up at Sister Claire. “What kind of God would rob me of both my wife and my child on a mere whim?”

Sister Claire sat quietly for a moment as she studied Thomas’ countenance. His words were blunt, almost obstinately so, but there was an important sincerity within them: he truly thought of Arella as his daughter already. She thought about mentioning the Book of Job, but knew the words—the lessons they imparted—would fall on deaf ears. Besides, she was sure that, deep within his heart, beneath the frustration, Thomas already knew them. What he needed now was not a lesson in theodicy, but something more tangible. Moreover, there was something incredibly important that Sister Claire now wished to ascertain.

“Do you know how Arella’s parents died?” she asked suddenly, catching Thomas off guard. His brow rose at the unexpectedness of her words, but then he turned away with a sour look, obviously thinking that she was dodging the question.

“I read the file that the board gave us. In preparation for the adoption.” He added a sardonic tinge to his second statement, but Sister Claire ignored it. Thomas continued, “I understand that they were killed in a car accident.” Sister Claire shook her head again.

“What you read was a summary. Many of the details were left out. You would have received a more thorough report after the adoption was finalized. The truth is a bit more complicated than you know.”

“In what sense?” Thomas asked, arching his brow slightly. Sister Claire sat quietly as she reviewed the information in her mind. Although there were certain details of Arella’s case that would have to remain confidential, the circumstances of Ari and Jessika Levin’s deaths were a matter of public record. There shouldn’t be an issue if she merely divulged information that she had uncovered in her own personal investigation—and if she was right, it might be what she needed to take a closer look at Thomas’ true character.

“The truth is that the car that hit Arella’s parents almost hit her, as well.” Thomas looked up in surprise. Sister Claire continued. “In fact, Arella’s father Ari was in no immediate danger at all. Had he done nothing, he would have been fine.”

“So, what happened?” Thomas asked with a certain amount of morbid fascination.

“It’s hard to tell, exactly,” Sister Claire said. “There were only a handful of eyewitness accounts. But, as I understand it, it wasn’t Ari and Jessika who were in the path of the car, but Jessika and Arella. Ari was across the street, and the two of them were crossing to meet him. There’s no telling exactly what transpired, but, presumably, Ari saw the car coming and ran out into the road. In that brief window of time, he was able to push his daughter to safety, sacrificing himself to do so.”

Thomas said nothing, but looked back towards the statue of Mary, cradling the infant Christ in her arms.

“The rest of what I have to say is mere speculation,” Sister Claire continued. “I never knew the Levins myself. However, based on the eyewitness accounts and the testimonies from those who knew Ari, I’m certain that there was no hesitation in his mind. He loved his wife and daughter deeply, but when it was clear to him that only one of them could live, Ari chose to protect his daughter. True to his name, his was the heart of the lion that was never paralyzed into inaction; his were hands of iron that never faltered under even the greatest stress. He was a truly remarkable man.”

Thomas looked down at his own hands. They were trembling slightly, with a thin veneer of cold sweat glossed over his palms. He slowly closed his fingers over them and took a shaky breath.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me he was some kind of war hero, too,” he said, the quiver in his voice undercutting the sarcasm. Sister Claire smiled slightly to herself.

“He was a florist,” she said simply, Thomas letting out a single, surprised laugh. He shut his eyes as he took another labored breath.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked quietly. Now was when Sister Claire would be able to uncover the information she was looking for. She lamented that it would be a painful experience for Thomas, but she believed that it would be a worthwhile one.

“Every child is different,” she began. “Each one I’ve worked with has had a completely unique set of circumstances. Those circumstances are instrumental in how we determine which prospective families would be a suitable match. Arella’s case was no exception. After learning more about the circumstances of her being orphaned, I believed that the most critical element in a successful adoption was her father. She was young when her parents died—less than three—so she does not have a clear memory of the event. However, I have no doubt that a strong impression has embedded itself in her subconscious—one of her father saving her life. What I was looking for in all of the families that we screened was a father with that same unshakable will—a father who would not hesitate to sacrifice himself for the sake of his daughter. Thomas, I was sure that person was you.”

Thomas clenched his hands together and raised them to his head, his eyes closing tightly as they began to water.

“I knew it from the first time we met,” Sister Claire continued. “Your demeanor, your poise, was confident and unwavering, but your heart expressed a sincere and gentle love. That was clear from how you interacted with your wife, and even moreso from how you both spoke about Arella; it was obvious that you had every intention of adopting her, as though anything else was an impossibility. I saw the heart of the lion in you, Thomas. I saw Ari.”

Sister Claire paused briefly as her words worked their way into Thomas’ heart, then she decided to up the stakes. It was certainly a gamble, as what she was about to say next could be construed as a breach of privacy, but she felt sure that Thomas had a right to know it, and it would almost certainly lay his heart bare.

“Do you know what Arella said to me after your last visit?” she asked, knowing, of course, that he did not. Thomas merely shook his head, unable to gather enough breath to form words. “She held up the picture she had drawn of the three of you together, and asked, ‘When are mom and dad taking me home?’”

Thomas could no longer restrain himself, and his chest began to quake violently, his sobs shaking him down to his core. His knuckles turned a ghastly white as he clenched his hands together, pressing them hard into his forehead as the tears ran like streams from his eyes. The sight broke Sister Claire’s heart, but she knew there was one final push that she would have to make before she could stop.

“Thomas, I’m not telling you this to hurt you. I’m telling you because I believe that you truly love Arella—that you sincerely want what’s best for her. If I’m right about that, then I have to ask: do you want this adoption to go through for her sake, or simply for your own?”

The words were sharp and incisive, and they cut deep into Thomas’ heart. He sobbed quietly for a few more moments, then gathered up all of his remaining strength into one deep breath.

“Please find her the home she deserves.” Sister Claire nodded slightly, sure that she had found what she was looking for.

“I don’t have final say in the decision,” she said, gathering the papers from the bench and standing up, “but I have no doubt that’s a promise I can keep.”

Thomas continued to sit with his head in his hands as Sister Claire began walking once more towards the annex. She had a lot to discuss with the other sisters, but if they had the pull with the adoption board that she thought, she might be able to make a case. God willing, it may just be enough for a miracle.

“So, you see,” Thomas said quietly, his hand on top of Arella’s protruding fingers, “when the king found himself in the presence of the dragon’s heart, he was amazed to see the iron fall from his hands. Instead of attacking, he simply reached out and touched it gently. It radiated warmth, and he knew suddenly that his attempt to fight the dragon had been a selfish one, for it truly wanted what was best for the girl.”

“Then, the dragon won?” Arella asked, slightly perplexed. Thomas shook his head.

“Not quite. As the king held his hand against the dragon’s heart, he could feel it beating in time with his own. The dragon could feel that as well, and so it spat the king out. Moved by his newfound gentleness, the dragon stepped aside and bid him take the girl home. He gave the dragon a tearful thanks—although he carefully hid his tears from the girl—and rode with her back to his kingdom, where they lived happily ever after.” Thomas failed to catch himself in time before spitting out that last cliche, but Arella seemed unconcerned this time. She simply laid with the blanket covering the majority of her face in quiet reflection, then looked up at Thomas, a slight hesitation in her eyes.

“So, when the king took the girl home…is that when she became a princess?” Thomas’ eyes widened a bit as he realized that he had originally told Arella that the story was about a princess, and had utterly neglected to include that detail—but as he reflected on what Sister Claire had told him about Ari, a rather satisfying explanation came to him.

“After everything that had happened, this was what surprised the king most of all: for it turned out that the girl’s father and mother had been a king and a queen themselves, so she had been a princess all along.”

Arella remained silent as she pondered Thomas’ words. He wondered if it wasn’t the satisfying answer he had thought it was, but, nonetheless, the story had come to an end, so he kissed her forehead and wished her goodnight.

After Thomas had turned out the light and closed her door, he made his way down the hall to his study. He glanced briefly at the document open on his computer—an article he was currently editing before emailing to his publisher—then reached down and opened one of his desk drawers. He rifled through a few papers until he found what he was looking for: a photo of Ari and Jessika Levin, holding a young Arella between them.

Sister Claire had given Thomas the photo after the adoption had been finalized. He looked at it intently now, still thinking about what she had told him. He could certainly see what she meant as he looked at Ari’s eyes: they were determined, almost fierce, but there was a gentle depth hiding behind them as well. He wasn’t sure if he saw the same thing in himself that Sister Claire had claimed to, but he was committed to living up to Ari’s legacy, no matter how high he had set the bar.

Thomas returned the photo to the drawer as he heard the shuffling of footsteps and the creaking of his study door. He looked up to see Arella standing just outside, her favorite stuffed lion clenched tightly against her chest, her eyes brimming with tears. Thomas squatted down and held his arms out, motioning for her to come in. She walked slowly into the room and pressed her face against Thomas’ chest as he wrapped his arms around her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, scooping her up in his arms and walking over to his armchair, lowering himself into it carefully. Arella merely sobbed into his chest for a moment as he stroked her back, but as she spoke, he knew that he had truly underestimated her after all.

“I don’t feel like a princess,” she said quietly through her sobs. Thomas smiled sadly, cradling the back of her head.

“That’s okay,” he whispered, stroking her hair gently. “I don’t really feel like a king. But that doesn’t matter. No matter what, I’ll always be your papa, and you’ll always be my little girl. Right?”

Arella merely nodded her head up and down, rubbing snot and tears into Thomas’ shirt. He stroked his hand up and down her back as he held her. There was a distinct possibility that he would have to sit here for some time before Arella fell asleep and he could carry her back to bed, but it was a minor suffering in the grand scheme of things—one that he was more than willing to endure.

As her breathing steadied and Thomas shifted his weight, preparing to stand up, Arella suddenly let out a quiet groan. He froze in place, waiting to see if she was actually awake or not. Just as he was about to move again, he heard a quiet, slightly unfocused voice say, “I saw you cry when you were talking to Big Sis, papa. You’re bad at hiding.”

Thomas let out a surprised, breathy laugh, then settled back into the chair, holding his terrifyingly astute daughter close to him. Suddenly, it seemed as though the moments between now and putting Arella back to bed were agonizingly few. He shut his eyes, holding her gently but firmly against himself, listening to her steady breathing and feeling the even drumming of her heart as it thudded against his own chest. No matter what, he thought, he would always be here to support her in Ari’s stead. Not with hands of cold iron, nor with hands of softened velvet, but with hands nonetheless tempered by love—hands that Thomas knew would always be just strong enough.