5
CHAPTER FIVE
The rich, savory aroma of fish chowder drifted through the cottage, curling warmly into the rafters.
I stirred my bowl, the spoon scraping against the ceramic in a grating sound.
Across the scrubbed pine table, my mother’s fingers worried the hem of her apron until the linen was a mess of white creases.
“Seventy-two hours,” Father finally said.
My spoon hovered midair, a single drop of broth sliding from its edge and falling back into the bowl.
“Yes,” I said at last.
Mother pressed her fingers to her lips. “Only three days…”
“It is not impossible,” Father said grimly. “What have they proposed?”
“By day, I am to present myself in Isvale. The Council will arrange introductions among fellow unbounds. They expect meto search…” I paused, unable to disguise the bitterness that edged the word. “Earnestly.”
Lyra frowned.
“And at night?” Father prompted.
“I am assigned to the Royal Archives,” I said. “They wish me to study under the guidance of Keeper Sora.”
My mother’s brows rose, and I looked away from her searching gaze as I continued “Talon has claimed supervisory authority over my case for the duration.”
The fire cracked in the hearth, the only sound in the sudden quiet. Father’s jaw tightened, the muscles jumping beneath his skin.
“The Master of the Veythar does not involve himself in minor proceedings,” he said, his voice hard.
“I know.”
Mother’s chair scraped softly as she rose, her hand sliding from my shoulder to cup my cheek. “Does he frighten you, Kaelia?”
The question lingered longer than it should have.
I thought of the sound of breaking bone beneath his boot on the ridge and the heat of his gaze in the hall.
“No,” I said honestly.
“He should,” my father grumbled. “The Master of the Veythar does not protect people, Kaelia.”
My mother’s hand trailed down my cheek, her fingers ghosting over the bruised skin of my throat. “Kaelia… your neck.”
Before I could pull away, her thumb hooked under my jaw, angling my head up toward the hearth-fire. I winced as the lingering heat flared, but she did not let go.
“It is nothing,” I lied.
“That is not nothing,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “That is a handprint!”
Father stood up so abruptly his plate rattled against the pine. His gaze was fixed on the darkening bruises. “Did he do this to you? Did Talon lay hands on you in that hall?”
“No! He did—”
“I will report him to the Council,” he roared, already turning toward the door. “I do not care if he is the Master of the Veythar, he cannot—”