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"I willneverthank you for this."
Her eyes narrow on me as I take a step back, putting enough distance between us that I'm confident she won't be able to strike me again so easily. Merelda's nostrils flare as her face colors at my insolence.
I'm not sure what she expected from me upon announcing my upcoming nuptials, but she certainly mustn't have expected me to be happy about them ... let alone thankful.
No, I will not thank her for handing me over to the likes of Lord Payne. The moment Father is well enough to hear me out, I will plead with him not to make me marry this man.
Merelda steps forward, her finger pointed at me as if to drive her point home.
"You should be grateful," she starts, "I could have had you out on the streets, whored out to the first man who'd take you if--"
I can't stand to hear another word of her voice. Of her believing she's finally getting rid of me, as she's been trying to do for the last six years.
The backs of my eyes burning, I send one final glare in her direction before turning and fleeing the dining room.
Tears blur my vision as I make my way through the house and out the back door, unsure of where my feet are taking me. Not that it matters. Wherever I go, she'll find me sooner or later, should she truly want to.
Somehow, I find myself back in Father's ruined workshop.
Except, it's not ruined.
Blinking, I glance around the room. Gone is the destruction from yesterday. The once toppled jars and tins have been righted, the broken glass swept away, and the only evidence of anything having occurred here being the stains too stubborn to be lifted.
Who could have done this, let alone had the time?
I step further into the room, my eye catching on the easel in the back corner.
My painting.
It's been fixed, or at least, someone has tried to fix it. It's far from perfect, but the once-smeared globs of oil paint have been worked into somewhat familiar shapes.
Staring at it, confusion clouds my mind.
Is it possible Father came down here in the middle of the night? I can't seem him having the time, let alone the energy to do so.
Sparing the rest of the workshop another glance, I press my fingers to my temples as my mind swims with the heavy smell of turpentine.
Clearly, I must not be thinking or seeing straight.
I need rest, and tomorrow I'll find a way to speak to Father about this arrangement with Lord Payne and the workshop.
The late morning sun filters dustily in through the window at the end of the hall as I pace just outside Father's bedroom.
Merelda has tears in her eyes as she worries her skirts in a chair nearby. We don't speak as we wait to hear what the doctor has to say.
I'd been woken at the crack of dawn to fetch him when Father's breathing had become too labored for her liking. I hate to say it, but I'm thankful for her quick thinking ... even if it meant her dragging me from my sleep and sending me racing off to town in the dark.
The minutes drag on until the door to their bedroom finally opens, and I stop my pacing. The doctor, an older man with dark gray hair and more wrinkles than facial features, steps out into the hall.
His face is grim as he takes Merelda and me in, quietly shutting the door behind him. He doesn't say anything for a long moment as I shift uncomfortably on my feet.
Each passing second of quiet has worry clenching its cruel fingers harder and harder around my heart, until I'm almost certain that I won't be able to survive whatever news he has to tell us.
Surely, if it were good news, he would've spat it out already. And yet, I cannot help but hope.
"Well?" Merelda finally asks in annoyance, rising from her chair. "Out with it already."
The old man clears his throat a few times, obviously flustered.
