Page 94 of Cursed Shadows 5

The jangle of the doorbell interrupts us.

I throw a wide-eyed look at the wall.

“Sorted!” Forranach’s voice booms through the tavern. “Barrels will be here within the hour!”

Eamon’s frown turns to the swing door.

“About that,” I start, a sheepish grin plastered onto my face. “I hired some help.”

Eamon turns to look down at me, the frown smoothed and gone. He arches his brow at me.

Eamon is sour this late phase.

He ignores me as he cooks our dinner in the kitchen of our small dwelling, whispering sweetness and adoration to Hedda every other moment, but turning his cheek to me whenever our gazes touch.

I fight the smile playing on my lips.

He will be thawed come next phase.

It isn’t that he dislikes Forranach, he simply dislikes that I made decisions in his absence.

If he had stayed, we could have made that decision together. Instead, he ran off with Dare—and didn’t even find Bee anyway.

The flittering thought passes me, that I hope she is well, safe. It startles me.

I frown through the sensation, then turn my gaze back to the letter unfurled on my lap.

Too many moments ago, I parked myself here, on the armchair by the hearth, and toyed with the wax seal for a while before finally fishing out the letter. I didn’t unfold that immediately. Instead, I picked at the corner, smoothed it back out, creased the paper, smoothed it back out, and I watched Eamon clang around the pans and feed Hedda strips of meat in the kitchen.

Reading Pandora’s letter is…uncomfortable.

I’m not filled with rage, not pulled to tears. I just want to pretend she doesn’t exist. That she never offered me up to the Sacrament the way Father so freely offered me to Taroh.

I want to pretend I had better family.

I have that now.

Eamon, of course. And Dare.

Forranach is getting there.

Hedda is in my heart.

Maybe Bee, one day.

Samick couldn’t care less about me, and Rune I haven’t seen since the close of the Sacrament.

But the one who wrote this letter, ink to parchment, was supposed to love me more than anyone, perhaps save from Father.

Uncomfortable. Yes, that is what it is to unfold the single piece of parchment and finally land my gaze on the first inked word:

‘Daffodil.’

A ball lodges in my throat.

I steel myself and read.

‘I named my babe Fáelán, the little wolf. Though I did play with names that mean surprise or unexpected, because that is what he was.

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