“You may be right, though she is full old for it.” Summer’s father fell silent for a moment. “Tell her. As often as you may do, tell her so, and show her so — she won’t believe you otherwise. Magic or not, my daughter judges herself harshly, and compares herself to others.” He folded his hands behind his back again. “You know she is not my daughter of my blood. She calls me father of her own will, and I try to be so to her. Ward perhaps is a better word for our standing.”
“I know,” he tells him, “I have seen her do as such, there are times where we will be up past midnight and it’s then I see all her fears. As much as she doesn’t like to admit it, she does have them.” Mordred nods, “she has told me — I think it sweet.”
“If she shows her fear to you, you are very high in her estimation.” Laurence shook his head. “Higher than I, even.” He clapped Mordred on the shoulder. “Show her, as often as possible; maybe she will believe of you what she could not believe of others. And when you make up your mind, come back and tell us.” He nodded across the field, where Winter and Summer were apparently re-enacting various bits of the combat. “I think you will do well enough.”