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Rowan thought she meant Blanchette at first. But the sadness in her eyes told him differently. Rowan scanned the great hall, searching for the right words. He searched inwardly, too, but found nothing there to help. “Aye, I miss her. Not a night goes by that I don’t think of her.”
Another servant arranged plates of oatcakes, potatoes, and dry bread before them. Mary collected her fork and unenthusiastically picked at her breakfast. “I wish I could remember her.”
“You were very young.” He held up his hands a foot apart. “And very, very little when it happened.”
“Oh.” Mary paused. She speared an oatcake and nibbled on its dry corner.
Rowan watched her with interest. “Would you like to know about her? What she was like?”
Mary set down the oatcake, and a transient smile spread across her face. The gesture lit her eyes and brought a warmth to that icy blue.
Rowan folded his hands on the table as he lost himself in thought. In his mind’s eye, he summoned Beatrice’s features: a river of dark, pin-straight hair, emerald eyes, and full lips. He observed Mary’s wistful, porcelain features and blond curls for several moments before the words came to him.
But before he could speak, Mary asked, “You said I was little when it happened. What happened? What happened to Mother?” Her voice held a mix of innocence and longing like she was trying to piece together a puzzle just out of reach.
Rowan scratched at his knuckles, feeling very much like a cornered beast. She was still young, only seven years old… but didn’t she have the right to learn what had happened from his lips? To learn about that merciless place where the darkness lived and was coming for them all?
“I’d been gone, campaigning for the king. I’d heard that something was amiss—an attack on our castle. I raced home so quickly that I nearly broke poor Sunbeam’s back. But I was too late. The king had betrayed me terribly… and the price was your mother’s life. I’m so sorry. Sorry for everything I’ve stolen from you.” He stared forward into the ashes of the great hall’s fireplace, his memories and thoughts sinking inward. “Your mother was beautiful and spirited. I shall never forget her.” He silently shook his head. His heart twisted and burned, and he forced himself to take a steadying breath. “Do I think of her often, you ask? I think of her every day.”
I think of Beatrice and all I might have done to protect her.
I think of how she looked at me with disdain those last few years.
I think of how you don’t have a mother because of my mistakes and sins.
Instead, he simply said, “You and your mother are the last things on my mind before I sleep.”
And Blanchette too.
She smiled a little, then picked at her oatcake for a long silence.
“Would you like me to tell you about her? About your mother?”
Mary bit a corner of her oatcake and nodded enthusiastically.
Rowan drained his tankard, then signaled to a passing servant to fill it again. The girl looked afraid of him—like she was in the presence of some very dangerous beast.
She thinks I burned that village.
Rowan took a moment to fall deep into the long-buried memories again. It had been an arranged marriage, and he’d only met Beatrice once before they took their vows. She’d lived in Demrov most of her young life but quickly became one of the king’s favorites once she appeared at court. King Bartholomew had arranged their marriage—just one more duty Rowan had performed on behalf of his king.
“She was spirited, beautiful, and more headstrong than she’d ever care to admit.” And she grew to hate me.
Mary dropped some crumbs beneath the table. Rowan heard Smoke rustle to attention and gobble up the scraps. Mary’s laughter filled the room, a bright sound amid the great hall’s looming darkness.
Rowan managed an amused smile. “My… what mischief have you taught him?”
Mary whispered something to Smoke, and the wolf’s intelligent eyes locked hers. She held her palm up, and to Rowan’s awe, Smoke placed a paw gently in her hand. Mary’s face lit up with delight as she scratched behind his ears.
Rowan’s heart swelled with pride and unexpected love. He nodded, his eyes shining with tears he had to fight back. He raised his tankard to her in a silent toast.
“I wish Mother was here now. What’d she look like? Like me?”
Rowan drank his ale and studied Mary over his goblet’s rim. A long-denied fear came racing back.
Rowan set down the drink and smiled at his daughter.
Then he shook his head.
