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I hurried to them, but before I could utter a word, a door opened to my left, and a column of firelight spilled across the floor. Father stood in silhouette at the threshold of the morning room, posture slumped, shirt untucked, hair in greasy disarray.

“You’re back,” he slurred, his voice hoarse as if from disuse. “I wasn’t sure you would return.”

Gareth touched my arm, but I shook him off. I could handle my father.

I joined him in the morning room, shutting the door quietly behind us. The air reeked of drink. Empty glasses stood on tables and lay strewn across the floor. That our staff hadn’t collected them told me Father hadn’t allowed them in, perhaps not for days. I couldpicture it clearly—he’d call for them, ask for a drink, and make them leave it outside. Once they were gone, he’d push open the door just enough to retrieve the glass, then shut it again.

I knew the ritual. I’d seen it many times over the years since our mother had left.

As I watched him stumble to his chair by the crackling hearth, my heart twisted, warring with itself. I saw him clearly—how pathetic he looked, and how embarrassing, how unworthy of any of us. And yet I loved him still. I had spent years loving him through every mess he’d made, every danger he’d put us in; I didn’t know how to stop.

But for the first time, I found myself wishing I could.

He fell heavily into his chair, gestured at the one across from him. “Sit, then, and tell me: Have you fucked the Bask boy yet?”

The words were meant to shock me, and they did; meant to infuriate me, and they certainly did that. But greater than my shock and anger was a wrenching pity. The sight of him brooding drunkenly before me compared to the memory of Philippa, clear-eyed and mighty, luxuriating in her isolated paradise—the contrast was stark, even humiliating. What would she think of him, if she saw him now? I felt fiercely glad that she’d insisted on staying at Wardwell.

I didn’t sit; I stood behind the other chair, keeping it between us.

“Have you eaten today?” I asked him.

He glared at me, bleary-eyed. “I asked you a question.”

“And I refuse to answer it.” I kept my voice calm. “It’s good to see you. I missed you while we were gone.”

He laughed. “There’s no need to lie. You’ve never been good at it, anyway.”

He was right. I wore everything I felt on my face, though I’d always tried my best to hide it with a scowl, a forbidding glare. Such looks were considered off-putting, especially on a woman—aridiculous opinion held by much of high society that I’d always used to my advantage.

Still, I tried again. “How is Ivyhill? Has Byrn made any progress with Jet?”

“Answer my question, Farrin.”

I clutched the back of the chair. My palms felt clammy. “I’ll send for supper. I’m sure Mrs. Rathmont can easily warm something for you—”

He surged to his feet with such sudden violence that it shocked the breath out of me. “Answer my question, Farrin!” he roared, and then he flung his drink at the fire. The glass shattered against the mantel; pieces of it went flying across the carpet.

A deafening silence fell. He glared at the fire, breathing hard. I couldn’t move. I held on to the chair, a cold, sick feeling crawling slowly down my body. My heart raced with rabbit panic. I wanted to run; I’d shove the chair at him if I had to. Two thoughts occurred to me, one after the other: that I was a fool for having taken off my fighting staff, and that it was awful—and horribly sad—that I had to worry about such a thing in my own home.

Father stared at the mess he’d made as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. Then he looked over at me in horror.

“Gods…” he whispered. His shocked expression crumpled. “Farrin, I’m sorry…”

A moment later, the door to the morning room swung open so hard it hit the wall. Ryder stroke in, looking murderous; beyond him stood Gareth and Gilroy, and our wide-eyed housemaid Emry, carrying tea and sandwiches on a tray.

Ryder came to me at once. He didn’t look at Father; he looked only at me.

“Farrin?” he said quietly. I knew he was angry, could feel the seething heat of it matching my own. But his voice was soft, his gazeon my face steady and calm.I’m here, Farrin. I’m here with you. Farrin of the forest light.

With his eyes on me, I could almost believe we were back in Wardwell’s quiet wood, before Ankaret came, when it was only his arms around me and his strength holding me up, bolstering me, reminding me to breathe.

And suddenly I decided not to be there anymore. Not in that room, not in any room containing my father. Let him clean himself up, I decided. Let him clean up his mess and come apologize to me later, when he was sober and remorseful. Only then would I speak to him, and not a moment before.

My decision left me feeling lightheaded, like I’d stood up too quickly from a chair. I blinked back my tears, my chest aching with sadness and anger and a sort of disgusted, tired clarity. I looked up at Ryder and gave him a brave smile.

“Let’s eat something,” I told him. I held out my hand, and he took it gently in his own, his eyes soft on me. “I’m starving. And look, Emry’s brought sandwiches. We’ll eat in the dining room.”

I walked away with my hand in his, shut the door to the morning room behind us, and didn’t look back even once.