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The look I run it over with is nothing less than curious.

Eamon curses under his breath before he points at the door, “I am not in the mood this phase. Open.”

And it does.

Slowly, reluctantly, but still, it creaks open.

The outside hits me with a gust of wind, and I can taste the wood of carriages, the leathers of boots, the waxy leaves that lush the street.

But I see only my father.

The fine creases around his eyes and mouth dig deeper into his skin than they did the last time I saw him. Even the dark tone of his complexion wears a pallor of exhaustion.

But ever the social climber, his boots are polished with a shine his eyes don’t hold, and his hair is threaded into a braid that spirals out of sight, down his spine.

He stills at the sight of me.

One blink, two, and I almost think he didn’t expect to see me.

Then he breaths my name with a rush of relief, “Narcissa.”

He pulls me into his arms.

I’m rigid for a heartbeat until, slowly, I bring my hands up to his back and pat. It’s an awkward embrace, since father was never the type to hug me or Pandora. At least not since I was a youngling.

After a few moments, he releases his hold on me. His hands reach for my limp arms as he lures in my gaze.

And I have to remind myself that he is my father, not some stranger who owns me.

He raised me, he only ever showed me love.

But looking up at him now, at those eyes swirling with such familiar warmth, the pinch of his mouth that betrays the tension stringing his muscles to his bones, I should only see the fear that a father has for his daughter.

Then I think of Taroh—the reason he’s given to be here.

I went to father and told him all about the wrongs Taroh committed against me, the threats of a painful marriage.

Father called me spoilt.

All this warmth he looks down at me with, it’s practiced.

I step back, and with the retreat, his hands slip from my arms. “What are you doing here, father?”

He looks down his nose at the dusty gleam of the greystone porch. The defeat weathers those crinkles around his eyes, darkening the circles, and I’m sure he hasn’t been getting much sleep at all.

“Taroh has gone missing.” Father finds his strength to lift his stare back up to mine. The angles of his jaw tighten. “He hasn’t been seen in two Quiets now.”

Lifting my arms, I hug myself as though I can shield myself from any conversations with father about that wicked, vile male.

‘I hope he got what was coming to him.’

Of course I don’t say that. I don’t want to fight. I am too tired, too drink-ill, and too saddened by father’s perpetual support of the male who tried to rape me.

Still, even now with our engagement strained by the Sacrament, he aids in the search for Taroh.

If I am made to have children one day, I will do better by them than this.

I shrug and the sweater I wear—Daxeel’s sweater—glides like silk over my body. “Taroh is not my concern.”