Page 7 of A Song of Ash and Moonlight

“Farrin,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. Gods. My darling girl, I’m so, so sorry…I don’t know what…”

He fell silent, ran a shaking hand through his hair. He shut his eyes tight, then spat out, his voice thick and shaky, “Damn this magic. Sometimes I feel like it’s punishing me. It’s as though I don’t use it enough for its natural purpose—not enough for its liking, anyway. It gets coiled up tight inside me and snaps loose whenever it wants, like some sort of wild animal. If only I could serve the Mist, as Mara does. Fight a few dozen Olden monsters every month. I’d be docile as a kitten then.” He laughed a little, scrubbed a hand across his beard, and then looked up at me. His gaze fell to my wrist. “Farrin, Farrin.” He shut his eyes once more, as if the sight of me pained him. “I’m so sorry. I can’t be sorry enough, for so many things.”

There was much to address in that little speech of his, so much that I felt the words nearly burst from my chest in outrage, but now was not the time. Instead I knelt beside him and touched his arm. He flinched, but I didn’t budge.

“This isgood, Father,” I told him. “Peace isgood. I know it feels like the opposite, but that’s only because it’s new. Without this feud in our lives, we can become ourselves again. We can simply be a family. We don’t have to keep secrets from Gemma. We don’t have to plot and scheme, or wait for curses to break, or worry that the allies of our enemy might attack us in their stead. And as far as a healthy use of your sentinel magic is concerned,” I added, trying to infuse my voice with a little cheer, “I’m quite sure the Warden would welcome your presence at the Mist. Perhaps training new recruits?”

He shot a grim smile at me. “New recruits? You mean gangly little brats with no awareness of their bodies whatsoever?”

That stung. I remembered the day the Warden had taken Mara from us all too well.

I sat back on my heels. “Mara was one of those gangly little brats, if you’ll recall. And she could knock you on your ass even then.”

Father’s face fell once more—ashamed, I hoped, of his callous remark. Of course, I was used to his thoughtlessness and had been for years. When I was younger, I used to imagine that Mother had literally carved the best bits out of our father to take with her when she left.

Now, at twenty-four, I couldn’t be sure that my childhood theory was entirely wrong.

“Of course,” Father said softly. “But Mara is special.”

She was, even more so than he knew. I thought of how powerful she’d been in the Old Country, every limb a weapon, her strength astonishing. Without her holding on to us in the attic playroom of that evil house, I wasn’t sure we could have saved Talan. I wasn’t sure we could have saved ourselves.

A little shiver went through me as I remembered the melody I had sung that night, its notes raw in my throat as I’d fought to be heard over the sound of Talan’s agonized howls. The horrible smack of Gemma’s body once she’d pulled the crown from Talan’s head and had gone flying back into the wall. Ryder, scooping her up into his arms, roaring at me to keep singing as we’d all fled.

I swallowed down those memories and said briskly, “And every little Rose is someone else’s Mara, so think about that next time before you pass judgment on other people’s children.”

“Of course,” he said quietly, looking thoroughly abashed, which gratified me. I helped him stand, trying not to think too hard about what an old man he seemed in that moment. In the wake of a rush of sentinel magic, especially one that came unbidden, Father sometimes experienced a sudden loss of strength, as if whole years had been sucked out of him. A common enough side effect of magic when it was used improperly, but not one I’d often seen Father endure over the years. He was Anointed. His ancestors had been chosen by the gods themselves to receive a piece of their magic.

And yet here he was, leaning against me as if his legs might fail him, while my wrist throbbed with the echo of his grip.

As I helped him settle on the bench, a horrible tenderness overtook me at the sight of him looking so vulnerable, and yet I was so furious with him, and frightened of him, andforhim, and for us. Who were those people waiting in the entrance hall? What had they all been discussing? What would the days to come bring, and what would I have to protect us against?

Could two families raised to hate each other ever truly embrace peace?

“I love you, Father,” I whispered, and it was true, wrenchingly so. But there were too many questions in my mind all clamoring for attention, and my throat was aching with sadness, and I was angry andtired as ever, and I suddenly couldn’t bear to be near him any longer. I had to hope that our conversation had sobered him, that his memory of hurting me would protect us for a time.

What a horrible thing to hope for.

I left him sitting there and went to find my sister. We would read Mara’s note together, and I would try to forget that look of rage Father had given me for speaking favorably of peace. I would try to forget how beneath his fury had flashed something even worse.

Disappointment.

Chapter 2

Gemma was not in the library but rather in her rooms, surrounded by piles of fabric: silver beadwork, fluffy peach tulle, fringed velvet shawls, some horrifically shiny gold thing dotted with pink silk roses. My baby sister stood in the middle of it all with a furrowed brow. She wore a soft green dress and a white ribbon in her long golden curls, and her arms were full of dresses. With one bare foot, she toed through a pile of satin on the floor.

I stopped dead on the threshold, suddenly remembering the most dreaded item on my list of tasks for the day.

Dress for ball.

These were all for me. I recognized a few of my own gowns in the flouncy chaos, much plainer colors than Gemma’s usual—grays and browns, shades of slate blue and dusty rose. Gemma had turned both our wardrobes inside out, determined to dress me as she saw fit for the upcoming ball.

The sight of it all nearly made me turn around and flee, but I already had Mara’s letter in hand, and Gemma was quick. She spotted me, let out a yelp, tossed the dresses she carried to the floor, snatched the envelope from my fingers, and tore it open before I could run away.

Defeated, I sank onto the tufted wingback chair by the door and listened to my sister read.

Dearest sisters,

I miss you both terribly and wish I were writing with better news. I’ll get right to the point. I’m convinced that the Mist is dying.

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