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How could her father allow her to be treated in such a manner? And what of this so called lover?
Why did he not protect her?
The room alone is evidence enough of her mistreatment. Though there are small details of her left behind, a pressed daisy in the window and a comb next to the bed, it is clear that her existence was barely tolerated here.
I cannot help but wonder what type of man would allow his daughter to be treated in such a way. Regardless of his soul, if he is truly the kind and caring man that Hazel has made him out to be, then he has yet to prove it to me.
Turning my back on her old room, I storm from the house and make my way back toward the small town and tavern
I need time to think. To understand who these people are and process what I have learned before I can return home to Hazel.
Time to quiet my feelings, before I do something utterly unforgivable.
23
Hazel
I’m balancing on a chair, struggling to hang a landscape I’ve just finished painting above the main sitting room fireplace, when an icy chill rushes over me. Pausing in my work, I turn to glance over my shoulder.
Haunting the doorway is the looming silhouette of Death.
“You’re back!” I say giving him a bright smile.
He says nothing as his eyes shift from me to slowly take in the painting I’m holding. My cheeks flush as he steps closer.
“I hope you don’t mind. I was running out of space to put them in the studio. I know I should have asked before I started hanging them, but—”
“I love it,” he says, cutting me off as he moves to stand beside me. Taking the painting from me, he lifts it into place above the mantle. My heart races at his closeness, and I have to stop myself from reaching for him. From telling him how much I’ve missed him.
He steps back, his eyes shifting back to me.
“Did you find my father?” I ask quietly.
“I did.”
“And how is he?” I press when he doesn’t elaborate further.
He hesitates for a moment, his gaze returning to the painting before flickering back to me.
“He is alive.”
I watch him as his attention once again shifts to the painting.
He’s obviously holding something back. How else could he be gone for so long only to return with such a vague response?
Worrying my lip, I wait for him to tell me more.
I don’t want to press him, but I’m curious about the life I left behind. Has Father begun to improve? Is Cyprian okay? Have I been blamed for Amadeus’ death?
Finally, when I realize that he intends to give me no further details, I force a bright smile onto my face.
“Are you hungry?”
He snorts softly in surprise at my question.
“You know I do not hunger in the way you mortals do,” he says, pausing as he takes in my expression. “But, I suppose, I could eat.”
“Perfect,” I say, brightening again, “The stew should be just about finished.”
