Page 10 of Cursed Shadows 1

I find other words, ones that don’t add to his pain. He’s just doing the best that he can.

“I indulged in wine,” I tell him, and there’s no look of surprise to cross his face. He simply studies me. “Danced with Eamon. Then he walked me as far as the Royal City.”

For a long moment, he’s quiet. Then he leans back in his chair. It groans. “Is Taroh really such a terrible male to have a future with?”

I blink at him. Words gather in my throat—and choke me.

Words I’ve never spoken to him.

I should tell him what Taroh did all that time ago.

I should have told father back then what had happened. But then Taroh, in all his shame and anger, seemed to be cosying up to another female, and my engagement to him was uncertain, then revoked… then uncertain…

It’s been a confusing arrangement.

Still, his reluctance seemed enough to comfort me, like a promise of escape that was never quite spoken.

Time passed. And father worked with Taroh’s father behind my back.

I should tell him now.

But I can’t.

He’ll ask too many precise questions, and I’ll have to tell him how I got away. That Daxeel was the one who saved me.

Then there’s the matter of my purpose. A daughter only born for this sort of arrangement.

The tocher—a dowry of sorts—that Taroh’s family will pay mine… it’s enough to restore the house. Not to its former glory, of course, but enough to fix much of the damage. Not to mention the matter of Taroh’s father being a lord. A connection like that will promote father through the ranks of nobility, the father of a lady.

That is exactly what he wanted from a second daughter—it is my purpose.

I smile something sad. “All unwanted males are terrible ones to have a future with.”

He gives a gentle scoff. “So much time spent in the scripture hall, you might have made a fine scribe.”

But a lady doesn’t work. So there is no future as a scribe for me. It’s not a painful thing, I don’t mind since I never wanted a career. But it’s a passion that I hope Taroh will afford me, to letme visit the scripture hall in the Royal City, or the archives at the High Court. Will he let me keep dancing?

I’m blunt as I ask, “When will it happen?”

Father leans his head to the side, resting his temple against the curved back of his chair. The light from the lanterns and windows fades from his face at this new angle, and all I can make out is the faint grey ribbon that has his long, black hair fastened over his shoulder.

I read so much exhaustion in him, he wears it like a fine cloak, and it’s constant. I never thought he suited his name, Brok; that the name was too strong for his weathered demeanour. Brok is the name suited to a warrior, but father always hunted the life of a noble.

“A month after the Sacrament,” he says. “At the High Court.”

So three months from now, I will be married.

I just nod once, a sharp gesture.

“I hope that in the meantime,” he adds, “you allow him to court you.”

My frown is aimed at a rotted spot on the desk’s wood. I itch to reach out and pick at it. Then I spot the little rug bug that skitters over the moist wood.

I reach out and crush it with my fingertip.

“There is another matter to discuss,” he says.

I lift my frown up to father. It creases my mouth, my eyes, my nose.

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