James Rowan is short, thin, and dressed in a plain blue tunic and pants. His dark eyes and olive skin remind me of Adam, and his age-spotted hands shake as he raises his arm in a snappy salute. Samuel returns the salute, his chest puffed out, his shoulders back. Samuel holds his pose until his leader lowers his arm.
“Be seated. Please.” Rowan’s voice is soft around the edges, like he enjoys lingering over his words. “Who would care for something to drink? It’s been a long journey. I always appreciate a bit of cold tea after I’ve been traveling. Ian, cut those ropes off her. She can’t hold a glass all trussed up like that.”
Ian frees me from the ropes around my wrists, and then he and Samuel crowd me toward a cluster of simple chairs with straight backs that surround a short oval table, while James Rowan, leader of Rowansmark and instigator of the pain atonement laws, pours tea and sugar over cubes of ice. I feel off-kilter and uneasy as I slowly sink into a chair and accept a glass of amber liquid with tiny grains of sugar floating lazily toward the bottom.
The Commander would never serve his own guests. He would never allow the extravagance of ice for a guest he knew he’d likely throw into his dungeon. In fact, he wouldn’t bother being polite at all.
I’m not sure what to do with a man who forces a boy to whip his father to death and then graciously serves that same boy a glass of tea. Ian and Samuel each sip their tea and thank their leader for it, but I lean forward and set my glass on the table in front of me. I’m not interested in gracious hospitality. It won’t change why I’m here. It won’t change what James Rowan has done. What Ian has done.
What I still have to do.
Rowan settles himself across from me, sets his tea down next to mine, and looks at me. I stare into his eyes. For a moment, his gaze is nothing but benign graciousness, but I narrow my eyes and lean closer, a clear challenge. He blinks twice, the creases around his mouth pinching close, and then I see it—powerful confidence edged with sharp intolerance for anyone who would dare stand in his way. Beneath the calm reception, behind the tea, the sugar, and the pretense, lurks the man who knows how to bend the will of others into a shape of his own choosing.
He’s going to find my will impossible to bend.
He gives me a small smile, but I refuse to return it. Folding his hands in his lap, he studies me in silence, and then says, “You’ve caused us quite a few problems. Refusing to return our property, threatening my trackers when they’re simply doing their job . . . I must say I’m disappointed in you.”
I hold his gaze and slowly lift my chin. Swallowing hard, I will my voice not to shake and say, “I could say the same about you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
RACHEL
James Rowan’s eyes narrow slightly—the only indication that my words have upset him. His smile remains friendly and paternal as he brushes an imaginary speck of dust from his tunic. The silence between us stretches so long, I begin to wish for a swallow of my tea just to keep my mouth from going dry. Dad used to use this technique on me when he was certain I’d done something I needed to confess. I always broke in less than two minutes, but I’m not going to break now.
Ian adjusts himself on the chair beside me, and his leg brushes against mine. I jerk away from him, and a tiny frown digs into Rowan’s forehead, as if the tension he sees between Ian and me causes him concern.
“Ian was good enough to fill me in on the details of these past two months,” Rowan says, his voice kind but firm.
I snort. “Was he good enough to tell you that he burned my city down, causing thousands of people to die, and then systematically murdered innocent people as we traveled to Lankenshire?”
Ian shifts in his seat and leans forward, but Rowan gives him a tiny warning glance, and he goes still.
“I see you have your pet dog on a tight leash,” I say, and though I can’t see his face, I can practically feel Samuel’s disapproval radiating from his body.
Rowan presses his fingers into a steeple, and says, “I enjoyed a good relationship with your father. I’m sorry for his passing. My condolences.”
“I’d love to explain to you in great detail where you can put your condolences.”
Samuel’s hand latches on to my shoulder and squeezes. Hard. “You will be respectful.”
“Or what? You’ll throw me in the dungeon? You’ll kill me? I already know you’re going to do both, so what have I got to lose?” My body vibrates with fury. How dare the man who created the kind of environment that kept Marcus from being able to go to him for help in rescuing Logan, the man who sent Ian after us knowing he would kill innocent people, sit there and pretend to mourn my father?
“I told you she was nothing like her father,” Ian says, his tone smug.
I round on him and hurl my words at his face. “You know nothing about my father. He never blindly followed anyone’s orders. He thought for himself. He stood for what was right, even when it cost him everything.” I seal my lips before I can tell him that I may not be a hero like Dad, but nothing, not Ian, not James Rowan, not the stupid fire-breathing Cursed One, is going to stop me from doing the right thing.
Even if it costs me everything.
I turn back to face Rowan, who is watching me with speculation buried beneath his bland mask of concern, and say, “My father didn’t steal anything from you. Once he realized the package he’d been given by Marcus McEntire was something the Commander shouldn’t have, he hid it rather than bring it back to Baalboden. And you declared him a traitor. Then you sent Ian to kill everyone. . . .” My voice breaks as I remember Sylph’s lifeless face. “Even though the people who died weren’t responsible for any of this. So you don’t get to sit there and tell me how sorry you are that my father is dead. Or how sorry you are that anyone from Baalboden is dead. Your condolences are useless to me.”
“Be seated. Please.” Rowan’s voice is soft around the edges, like he enjoys lingering over his words. “Who would care for something to drink? It’s been a long journey. I always appreciate a bit of cold tea after I’ve been traveling. Ian, cut those ropes off her. She can’t hold a glass all trussed up like that.”
Ian frees me from the ropes around my wrists, and then he and Samuel crowd me toward a cluster of simple chairs with straight backs that surround a short oval table, while James Rowan, leader of Rowansmark and instigator of the pain atonement laws, pours tea and sugar over cubes of ice. I feel off-kilter and uneasy as I slowly sink into a chair and accept a glass of amber liquid with tiny grains of sugar floating lazily toward the bottom.
The Commander would never serve his own guests. He would never allow the extravagance of ice for a guest he knew he’d likely throw into his dungeon. In fact, he wouldn’t bother being polite at all.
I’m not sure what to do with a man who forces a boy to whip his father to death and then graciously serves that same boy a glass of tea. Ian and Samuel each sip their tea and thank their leader for it, but I lean forward and set my glass on the table in front of me. I’m not interested in gracious hospitality. It won’t change why I’m here. It won’t change what James Rowan has done. What Ian has done.
What I still have to do.
Rowan settles himself across from me, sets his tea down next to mine, and looks at me. I stare into his eyes. For a moment, his gaze is nothing but benign graciousness, but I narrow my eyes and lean closer, a clear challenge. He blinks twice, the creases around his mouth pinching close, and then I see it—powerful confidence edged with sharp intolerance for anyone who would dare stand in his way. Beneath the calm reception, behind the tea, the sugar, and the pretense, lurks the man who knows how to bend the will of others into a shape of his own choosing.
He’s going to find my will impossible to bend.
He gives me a small smile, but I refuse to return it. Folding his hands in his lap, he studies me in silence, and then says, “You’ve caused us quite a few problems. Refusing to return our property, threatening my trackers when they’re simply doing their job . . . I must say I’m disappointed in you.”
I hold his gaze and slowly lift my chin. Swallowing hard, I will my voice not to shake and say, “I could say the same about you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
RACHEL
James Rowan’s eyes narrow slightly—the only indication that my words have upset him. His smile remains friendly and paternal as he brushes an imaginary speck of dust from his tunic. The silence between us stretches so long, I begin to wish for a swallow of my tea just to keep my mouth from going dry. Dad used to use this technique on me when he was certain I’d done something I needed to confess. I always broke in less than two minutes, but I’m not going to break now.
Ian adjusts himself on the chair beside me, and his leg brushes against mine. I jerk away from him, and a tiny frown digs into Rowan’s forehead, as if the tension he sees between Ian and me causes him concern.
“Ian was good enough to fill me in on the details of these past two months,” Rowan says, his voice kind but firm.
I snort. “Was he good enough to tell you that he burned my city down, causing thousands of people to die, and then systematically murdered innocent people as we traveled to Lankenshire?”
Ian shifts in his seat and leans forward, but Rowan gives him a tiny warning glance, and he goes still.
“I see you have your pet dog on a tight leash,” I say, and though I can’t see his face, I can practically feel Samuel’s disapproval radiating from his body.
Rowan presses his fingers into a steeple, and says, “I enjoyed a good relationship with your father. I’m sorry for his passing. My condolences.”
“I’d love to explain to you in great detail where you can put your condolences.”
Samuel’s hand latches on to my shoulder and squeezes. Hard. “You will be respectful.”
“Or what? You’ll throw me in the dungeon? You’ll kill me? I already know you’re going to do both, so what have I got to lose?” My body vibrates with fury. How dare the man who created the kind of environment that kept Marcus from being able to go to him for help in rescuing Logan, the man who sent Ian after us knowing he would kill innocent people, sit there and pretend to mourn my father?
“I told you she was nothing like her father,” Ian says, his tone smug.
I round on him and hurl my words at his face. “You know nothing about my father. He never blindly followed anyone’s orders. He thought for himself. He stood for what was right, even when it cost him everything.” I seal my lips before I can tell him that I may not be a hero like Dad, but nothing, not Ian, not James Rowan, not the stupid fire-breathing Cursed One, is going to stop me from doing the right thing.
Even if it costs me everything.
I turn back to face Rowan, who is watching me with speculation buried beneath his bland mask of concern, and say, “My father didn’t steal anything from you. Once he realized the package he’d been given by Marcus McEntire was something the Commander shouldn’t have, he hid it rather than bring it back to Baalboden. And you declared him a traitor. Then you sent Ian to kill everyone. . . .” My voice breaks as I remember Sylph’s lifeless face. “Even though the people who died weren’t responsible for any of this. So you don’t get to sit there and tell me how sorry you are that my father is dead. Or how sorry you are that anyone from Baalboden is dead. Your condolences are useless to me.”
