Prisoner of Death: The Black Dream, #2

By Celina Summers

Sometimes allies can turn deadly.

The only thing worse than waking up as the prisoner of your mortal enemy is not knowing he’s your mortal enemy when you do. While the charming man who claims to be her husband arouses nothing but suspicions, the dreams she has of an Elflord who supposedly died long before incite longing. And when at last the clouds clear away, what’s revealed is terrifying—war, murder, and the grim prophecies about an apocalypse called the Eleusis. The Elven Realm needs allies, for not even the fabled power of their Queen is enough to protect her people. When the gods and their prophets are barred from the mortal realm, Tamsen’s search for an alliance leads her to make a dangerous bargain with an agent of Chaos. She must destroy the agents of the Eleusis, but in order to do so, she may condemn herself to a terrible fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Celina Summers
• Release date: Oct 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370350766

Book preview

Copyright

The Black Dream, Book Two:

Prisoner of Death

Copyright @ 2016 Celina Summers

This book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events is coincidental.

This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this book can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.

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Released in the United States of America

Editor—Helen Hardt

Cover art—KMD Web Designs

Formatting & design—KMD Web Designs

Dramatis Personae

Asphodel

Prosper de Asphodel—Count of Asphodel, Tamsen’s father

Solange de Spesialle—wife of Prosper, Tamsen’s mother

Tamsen de Asphodel—ruling Countess of Asphodel

The Elven Realm

The House of Ka’antira

Kaldarte—the Elven Seer, wife of Arami, mother of Lamec, Wilden, and Morrote

Arami—Woodlands Lord

Lamec—member of the Elven Council, father of Liliath and Cetenne

Ardenne—Lamec’s wife

Liliath—Tamsen’s foster-sister, Cetenne’s twin

Cetenne—Tamsen’s foster sister, Liliath’s twin

Wilden—Elven Scout, fealty-found to Mariol, Marquis de Beotte and Morrote’s twin

Morrote—Elven Scout, fealty-bound to Mariol, Marquis de Beotte and Wilden’s twin

Antir—last of the Elven Kings, brother to Kaldarte

The House of Ka’breona

Brial—Elven Scout leader

Beron—commander of Elven armies, father of Brial, Balon, and Berond

Balon—Brial’s brother

Berond—Brial’s brother

The House of Ka’charona

Acheros—leader of the Elven Council of Elders

Leither—Acheros’ wife, mind mage, head of Elven Mages

Geochon

Lufaux—King of Ansienne

Mariol—Marquis de Beotte, cousin to the King, member of Privy Council, and warmage

Anton de Ceolliune—Duke de Ceolliune, co-ruler of Callat-Ceolliune, father to Anner

Anner de Ceolliune—heir to the duchy of Ceolliune

Jeshan de Callat—Count of Callat, co-ruler of Callat-Ceolliune

Glaucon de Pamphylia—heir to the duchy of Pamphylia

Mylan de Phoclydies—Earl of Phoclydies

Myrielle—Mariol’s mistress

Gabril de Spesialle—Duke of Spesialle, brother to Solange, member of Privy Council

Hyagrem de Silenos—warmage, tutor of Tamsen

Prologue

Sieppa stared at the charred patch of earth, searching for signs that would lead her to the trail. Balon Ka’breona searched as well, on the opposite side of the fire, but he was looking in the wrong place.

Spesialle would never have taken her into the forest. If there is a trail, it leads to the plains of Ansienne.

If there is a trail.

She marked the spot where her sister had stood for her confrontation with their hated uncle and found the faint imprints he’d left as well. Also, she noticed some strange marks—someone had dragged Tamsen to her enemy and thrown her down but without any tracks to betray who or what had taken her there. The thickly clustered bushes of gorse and blackberry didn’t have any broken branches, and she couldn’t see any tracks leading to either side.

They must have left the forest, Balon said, arriving at this conclusion at the same time Sieppa did.

I agree. Then she saw it: the faint markings, deeper than those in the clearing, of a man’s heavy boot in the soft earth indicated that he was carrying something fairly heavy.

Like a person.

Sieppa followed the faint path, Balon just behind her with an arrow notched to his bow. The two young Elves traced the bootprints to the broad northern plain of the human kingdom within a half-hour. The trail abruptly disappeared into the tall grasses of the steppe.

He teleported, Sieppa said with a sick feeling in her stomach. There is no telling where he took her.

She gathered a finger of magic and sent it to race along the last pair of footprints. The magic swirled above and around it for a minute, and Sieppa gasped in amazement.

A white room, all white, blindingly white walls, floors and ceilings. The window is opened and draped in white billowy cloth, and upon the bed, a woman lies sleeping, the unusual pallor of her silvery hair and fair skin almost blending into the pale palette of the room…

Dear gods! Sieppa exclaimed. I can see her! But where is she?

She looked up into Balon’s baffled face. His black eyes glittered strangely at her, and then she dismissed the errant thought. She dipped her magic back into the track.

The window. The window opens onto a world of white, but—it’s shifting, moving, changing into a pastoral scene of fields and gardens. The woman on the bed moans, a hand fluttering to her forehead, and as she awakens, the world outside settles into solidity…

She is not on this plane, Sieppa murmured.

I can see that, Balon replied.

"Not plain, a-i-n, but plane, she explained. She’s been taken somewhere else, somewhere that doesn’t exist for us."

She’s dead? No, she’s imprisoned in some kind of dreamworld, a place that only exists in someone’s imagination. It can’t be Spesialle then, it must be…

A god, the young Elf said sadly.

Nevertheless, if it’s a dreamworld, one who walks there can help us, she said with sudden inspiration. Let’s go back to Leselle and get the others. I have an idea.

Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed the Elflord’s hand and vanished.

Chapter One

I awakened slowly. My eyelids fluttered open, and I squinted against the bright light that turned my sight red for a moment. Hands that did not look familiar at all came up to shade them from the glare. Even that small movement made my head swim with a sharp, piercing pain penetrating behind my left ear, but I forced myself to sit up and look around me.

The room was completely white: the walls, floor, ceiling, and furniture were all pristine, sharply white. The one window that let long cruel rays of light fall upon the snowy bed upon which I lay was shrouded in white, filmy fabric, flowing in a scarcely-felt breeze.

What is all this?

I lifted my hands once more, staring at the long, slender fingers and slim wrists in amazement, noting the extreme pallor of the skin stretched over the delicate bones.

Are these my hands?

Those hands went to my face, and the fingers felt oddly rough against my cheek, the fingers and thumb callused. Cautiously, I set my hands on either side of my body in the bed, scooting myself to the edge and swinging my feet to the floor. Then, I stopped again, fascinated and confused by the sight of my legs clad in long fitted leather trousers tucked into scarred high-topped leather boots. I looked down at my body. The leather tunic was fitted to me over a tan-colored shirt that stretched over the bones of my wrists. An intricate sash of leather belted both garments around a slender waist. No frills or furbelows about these clothes, and their tight fit didn’t disguise the feminine shape beneath them.

I got to my feet, swaying as I rose to my full height. A sudden motion caught my eye as a very long silver-white plait swung against the top of my right thigh. Amazed, I lifted it in my hands, noting the fine silky texture of it.

Is this my hair?

I tugged on it and was rewarded with another vicious twinge of pain behind my left ear. I examined my head with cautious fingers and located a tender swelling on my temple.

I moved as if I’d been asleep for a long time and stiffly made my way to the ewer standing on a white washstand nearby. I splashed water onto my face, hoping it would jar some memory loose. Everything about me was strangely familiar, yet I didn’t recognize anything. The clothes and hair were obviously mine, but why didn’t I…

The water in the bowl stilled into a flat reflective sheet. I stared in absolute confusion at the reflection. The young woman with the puzzled frown, was that me? My mouth opened slightly, as did hers, and I realized I had no idea who I was. Faces, images flew past my inner eye, yet I found myself unable to grasp them.

Too many discrepancies.

I grasped the edges of the washstand with blanching fingers. Hands pale and slender, but callused. A young woman’s face, but the hair of an elder. Everything seemed like it should have been familiar, but wasn’t.

I half-fell half-staggered back to the snowy bed and collapsed against the deep softness of the blankets and pillows.

Who am I?

I closed my eyes. Hopefully, when I woke up, I could put all of these pieces together.

Hopefully, I would know who I was.

…

Time fer ye to be wakin’ up, milady.

My eyes flew open. A corpulent woman with a broad face peered down at me. Are ye feelin’ all right, milady?

I—I’m not sure, I stammered, sitting up. A wave of nausea and dizziness overwhelmed me.

Instantly, my companion’s strong, beefy arms came around me, lowering me back to the pillows.

Well, now, ye don’t want to be doin’ that, milady, she chided me good-naturedly. ’Tis quite a knock on the head ye took, and that’s a fact. Jest lay there, and I’ll mix ye sommat to make ye feel better, all right?

Who are you?

She placed a cool, damp cloth across my brow. Ye don’t remember me?

"I don’t remember me," I replied with a hint of dryness in my voice.

"Gods above—the master said ye’d taken a hard knock, but I never thought it was that bad. I’m Graisen, yer maid, an’ ye’re the Lady Solange de Spesialle."

Spesialle? I asked blankly, disliking the name for some reason. What is that?

The woman clucked her tongue. It’s yer husband’s dukedom, milady. Yer the Duchess of Spesialle and married to Lord Gabril these past ten years or more. Don’t ye remember him?

A fleeting image of long golden hair and flashing black eyes raced across my mind and then vanished into the clouds that fogged my mind.

Is he blond? I asked, trying to regain the sight.

Aye, she replied, with a note of relief. Lord Gabril’s as blond as they come, milady. Ye’re a right striking couple, ’im with ’is blond hair and handsome face, and ye, milady, as perty as a picture with yer silver hair and eyes and sech a tiny little figger. The Duke’s been right worried about ye, milady, and ’e won’t like it atall that yer memory’s been taken. Shall I tell ’im to come in and see ye?

I hesitated. Obviously, this woman knew me, which meant I was probably this Solange person, but I felt that it wasn’t quite right, somehow. Another name was just beyond the borders of my consciousness, hanging tantalizingly out of reach. Finally, I nodded, and the big woman bustled across the room to the door.

Ye kin come in, milord, Griasen said.

I lifted the cloth from my brow as a man entered the room. He was tall and fair, but his eyes were a piercing light blue instead of black. He came immediately to my bedside and took my hand in his.

How do you feel, my dear? he asked.

You aren’t the face I remember, I murmured, screwing up my eyes in an effort to recognize him. I don’t remember you at all.

It’s all right, Solange. He brought my hand to his lips. That was quite a fall you took. The physicians warned me that this might affect your memory but assured me your memory would return in time. Griasen and I are going to take good care of you, my sweet, until you’re all better.

How did I fall?

Your horse threw you, Gabril replied, a worried frown creasing his brow. You hit your head on the garden wall.

It hurts. I withdrew my hand and closed my eyes. I didn’t remember this man, and I wanted to be left alone with my troubled blank thoughts.

Of course. I’ll come back later, my love, when you’re feeling better.

He rose with seeming reluctance and went to leave. Once at the door, he murmured in a low voice, Clean her up, get her into something more comfortable, and then let her sleep. It’s the best thing for her.

Did I imagine the smug satisfaction in his voice? If Griasen was right, this man was my husband. Why would he be satisfied with an injury to his wife? Before I could think about it, Griasen was back at my bedside.

Come now, milady, she coaxed me. I’ve rung fer a bath, and I’ll wager that once ye’re washed up and in clean clothes ye’ll feel worlds better!

Griasen. I opened my eyes to look at her. I do not remember the Duke as my husband.

Don’t worry, milady, she said, her eyes glistening. Ye will…in time.

…

A woman walked toward me across an empty field. She was tall, with fair hair gathered loosely on the back of her head, clad in a kirtled tunic and carrying a golden bow. As she drew nearer, I gasped at the austere beauty of her face. Her brows were puckered over her gray eyes, her mouth turned down at the corners, as she stared at me.

Dost thou not know me, beloved daughter? she asked, melancholy infusing her low voice.

I peered at her. No, I’m afraid I don’t.

Poor child, she murmured, raising her hand to touch my cheek. Thou art hidden away from mine eyes on the mortal planes, and I may only find thee in thy dreams. There is not much time before our unknown enemy drives me from thee, so I must be brief. Thou must keep this in mind, mortal daughter: thy prison is not of thine own making. Thy foe has thee in hand and seeks to turn thee from thy path. Before any other matter, thou must strive to remember who thou art.

But I can’t remember. Can’t you tell me?

I cannot, for fear that it might harm thee. There is one coming to aid thee, and thou must prepare against his coming. Play thy captors fair, and do not let them suspect that thou knowest that they lie. Soon, all will be made clear.

So my name isn’t Solange?

Her face shifted into wariness. No, mortal daughter, thy name is neither Solange nor Spesialle. Soon, the answers will come to thee; until then, rest and hoard thy strength. Thou shall require it ere long.

…

When I awoke some hours later, I remembered every detail of the dream. Griasen smiled at me, and I considered her broad face.

She was familiar to me; I felt like I knew her. I did not, however, feel like I particularly liked her.

I smiled back at her and kept the substance of my dream to myself. Thy name is neither Solange nor Spesialle, the woman in my dream had told me, and I pondered this as I let the large woman brush out my tangled hair.

If I wasn’t who these people said I was, who was I?

The flashing black eyes raced across my memory again, trailing the elusive name behind it. I let my lashes fall over my eyes, hiding behind them while I tried to remember who this man that haunted my memory was.

I’m happy to see that you’re up, my dear, Spesialle said.

I followed Griasen into a room that looked hauntingly familiar. The chamber was beautiful, with large bay windows overlooking the sea and a table set for two before a roaring fire. I smiled as the man took my hand to his lips, and I allowed him to lead me to a chair.

We didn’t talk as the manservant heaped our plates with food. I ate the vegetables in a cream sauce and enjoyed the melting warmth of the fresh bread. For some reason, the medallions of beef in wine sauce turned my stomach. Even the aroma of the meat nauseated me, so I left it on the plate. When we were finished, Gabril held my chair and then escorted me to a chaise nestled between the windows. He poured a glass of wine for me and one for himself. Gabril turned to regard the sun setting over the endless swell of waves crashing into the shore beneath us.

His back was to me, so I looked at the long fair hair braided with gems over a rich brocaded coat, broad shoulders atop a torso that narrowed to a trim waist, and finally the long legs. Gabril de Spesialle’s posture proclaimed that he was an influential man, from the obvious strength of his body to the way he carried himself. Power hovered around him, an aura of strange energy that seemed to tickle the edges of my awareness.

A small voice in my head warned, Beware! He must not know you suspect him.

Suspect what?

Anything, the voice continued faintly. He will kill you without care for the consequences.

Are you feeling better, my love? Gabril asked, not turning from the window.

I am feeling better. My head doesn’t hurt quite as much.

And your memory? He turned to face me with a smile.

I looked up at him. Although his lips were curved in a polite, even faintly amused, smile, it never quite reached his eyes, eyes that I noticed for the first time were cold. I looked down at my wine glass and sighed.

Every once in a while, I feel like I’m about to remember something, but it slips away from me. I rubbed the back of my neck.

He came to sit beside me and took my hand in his. And me? he asked, those bird-like eyes searching my face.

No. I don’t remember you at all.

A flicker of something crossed his face, only to be replaced by a sad, almost hurt, expression. I had hoped your memory would have returned to you in that aspect at least. He sighed as he released my hand. My bed is lonely without you, my sweet.

His words sent a thrill of something akin to horror down my spine. Without conscious intent, I was off the couch and backing away from him in terror while the wine glass shattered at my feet. Gabril held his hands up, stepping toward me with a concerned expression on his face.

No, my love! Don’t be so frightened. I didn’t mean to intimidate you. Come, sit back down and I’ll get you another glass of wine. Once you’ve drunk it and are calmer, I’ll send for Griasen to take you back to the chamber where you have been resting.

I permitted him to draw me back to the couch. He released my trembling hands.

That was inexcusably thoughtless of me, Solange. Please, forgive me; I didn’t mean to frighten you thus.

I don’t know what made me react so to you, especially if you are, as you say you are, my husband…

I will not press you, Solange.

Gabril walked to the bellpull and gave it an impatient jerk. A few minutes later, the door opened to admit Griasen.

Take Solange back to her room, he said curtly, his back to me as he stared out the window. My wife is uncomfortable being alone with me.

I rose to my feet. I’m sorry.

I will be patient, he said, still not looking at me. I will wait until you are stronger and you realize that you have nothing to fear with me. Good night, Solange. Sleep well.

As Griasen led me through the empty corridors of the great house, for the first time I entertained the thought that perhaps Spesialle was all that he said he was.

Maybe he is my husband, I said silently.

He is your enemy. Do not trust him; he will destroy you.

I awoke early the next morning. Griasen was nowhere to be seen, so I rose from my bed and opened the wardrobe doors. Pulling out a gown of soft combed blue linen, I washed my face and brushed out my hair, leaving it long and loose against my back. Then I pulled the gown over my head. It rustled around me as it fell, and I stared with sudden interest at the full-length mirror on the opposite wall.

The gown didn’t fit me.

The hem hung several inches above my ankles, swirling in heavy folds around my calves, while the waist was at least three inches too large. The sleeves, cut to fit tightly, stopped a full inch-and-a-half above my wrists, while the shoulders bagged halfway down my upper arms.

I selected another gown and tried it on; it, too, was the wrong size.

My mind churned as I considered the implications. I removed the second gown and hung it back in the wardrobe. The first gown, too, I returned to the wealth of dresses hanging side by side and pulled my nightrobe back on. Once I had ascertained that everything was put back in its proper place, I climbed back into bed and closed my eyes, feigning sleep so I could think.

If I were, in fact, Solange de Spesialle, why didn’t these gowns fit me? If they hung a little loosely, my recent injury might explain it. Still, these dresses were obviously made for a shorter, stouter woman than I. How could it be, if this were my home, that none of the gowns in my supposed wardrobe fit me?

But if I am Spesialle’s wife, why would all my clothes be in a room that I obviously didn’t share with him? Wouldn’t they be in the joint bedchamber shared by the Duke and Duchess?

While I was considering this, the door opened with a slight squeak of its hinges. I opened my eyes a slit, watching from behind a screen of lashes and hair as Griasen entered the room, a long bag over one meaty shoulder. She opened the wardrobe doors and opened the bag. She hung three new gowns in the wardrobe, spacing them several garments apart. Then, she folded the bag and hid it at the back of the wardrobe.

Griasen lumbered to the door. Someone handed her a tray laden with covered dishes. She brought it to the table at my bedside and said in a cheerful voice, Time to be up, milady. ’Tis a lovely day, and ’is lordship is anxious to see ye. I’ve brought yer breakfast.

I yawned and stretched. When I sat up, she placed the tray over my lap and bustled to the now-closed wardrobe. ’Tis not quite as warm today, milady, so ye’d probably wear sommat a little bit heavier. What do ye think of this?

She pulled the first of the gowns she’d brought from the wardrobe: a crimson-dyed woolen gown with silver-embroidered flowers scattered about the hem and the edge of the sleeves.

No, I don’t think so, I said, buttering my toast.

How about this one?

The second dress was a warm brown velvet edged with creamy lace. I looked at it as if I were considering it, but then shook my head. Griasen’s face showed a momentary quiver of misgiving, but she returned the brown dress and brought out the third, laying it across the foot of the bed and then firmly closing the wardrobe doors. I eyed the gown with a lifted eyebrow: it was dark green, with rather intricate lacing across the bodice and a high, tight collar.

So, I’m to wear that, am I? I asked, my voice mild.

Ye’ve lost some weight since yer accident, the woman mumbled. Ye need to get the other gowns refitted.

I see, was my placid reply.

Besides, Griasen said brightly, her head coming up suddenly, "you always pick the third gown, milady. It’s like our own little joke!"

I frowned down at my toast. The cheerful, homey peasant accent had vanished from the woman’s voice. So she was acting a role for some reason and wanted me to believe she was uneducated and of obscure rural origins.

Well, Griasen, you should probably see to my bath, I said after a momentary pause. I think I want to bathe before I do anything else.

Yes, milady, she replied with a curtsey, her face suddenly relieved.

As the woman quietly left the room, I frowned and drank my tea. None of the gowns in the wardrobe were mine. Griasen was bringing newly-made or purchased gowns and insinuating them into the wardrobe. Obviously, someone wanted me to think this was my home. My maid, my clothes, my home—all were part of a big charade.

Chapter Two

I sat bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding against my breast. I’d been dreaming of a man, a beautiful, slender man with golden hair and bold black eyes who laughed at me as I flipped vegetables into a bubbling pot on the fire. As my pulse steadied and my breathing stilled, I lay back against my cushions, trying to recall his face.

Who was he?

I was nowhere closer to finding the answers I sought. Over the course of the past week, I’d watched Griasen and the other servants covertly, hoping that one of them would slip up in my presence. Every morning, while I lay feigning sleep in my bed, Griasen would add more gowns to the wardrobe, removing others at the same time. She talked to me non-stop while in my presence, reminding me of things that had allegedly occurred in my past, and the uneducated vernacular never slipped from her tongue a second time. She had all the characteristics that a loyal, loving servant should have for her mistress, but I no longer trusted her. If there was a plot to make me believe I was who they said I was, she was in it up to her neck.

My position gave me free rein in the castle, and for a portion of every day, I wandered through its halls, searching for something that would jog my memory. But if I drew too closely to Gabril’s chambers overlooking the sea that someone always appeared with a request or an invitation to go elsewhere.

The so-called mistress of the house, it appeared, had boundaries set upon her freedom.

I spent hours in the salt-sprayed gardens, on a bench under a tree with a book or walking along the manicured paths while a cool breeze whipped the loose curls around my face. Once, while I examined a gorgeous hibiscus tree laden with lavender flowers, a glint of metal caught my eye beneath the dying stems of the shrub next to it. Curiously, I pulled out a ring of keys, rusted and tarnished, that had obviously lain hidden under this bush for quite sometime. Without really thinking about it, I tossed them back and resumed my walk.

I saw Gabril for a substantial part of every day. After my solitary breakfast, he usually found me in the library as I pored over books. Curious—I couldn’t remember my name, but I remembered how to read. He would sit opposite me, maintaining a respectful, courteous distance since the scene over dinner the week before, talking to me about what I was reading. Then, he’d go off to tend to his business, and I amused myself until we met for lunch. He walked with me in the gardens after the meal before disappearing once more to the privacy of his study. Then, dressed more formally with my hair piled on my head, I went back to the chamber over the shore, and my purported husband and I ate our supper together.

Gabril never importuned me; he never displayed any untoward acts of affection or passion since our first meal. He was kind and considerate and treated me as if he were courting me for the first time.

If he was trying to deceive me, he was doing an excellent job of it. Although the little voice in my head nagged me incessantly, I was hard pressed to associate the charming, concerned man who called himself my husband with any nefarious plot. It didn’t make sense.

But something within me caused me to hold back, to keep my distance from the affection and safety his attitude promised while we discussed the merits of a particular poem. I could sense that he always wanted more, that he was holding back until the time was right. Despite his quiet courtesy, I sensed impatience straining for release. I knew this restraint was temporary, and I was uneasy when I wondered what would happen when it finally snapped.

One rainy afternoon in the library, I found a book. I held it, frowning, in my hands: a slim red-leather-bound volume of poetry. I caressed the texture of the binding and flipped the cover open to the flyleaf.

The Second Ilian War, I said aloud.

The Ilian War?

The title rang warning bells in my head, and for no reason a thick scar I’d found on the back of my right shoulder—that I didn’t remember getting—twinged with a sudden sharp pain. I took the little book to my customary seat, disdaining the thick-cushioned armchairs in favor of a long, low couch. Curling up in the corner, I read the dedication out loud.

This volume is dedicated to Anner de Ceolliune, hero of the second Ilian War and Duke de Ceolliune—

What did you say?

I looked up, surprised. Gabril was standing in the door. His face was pale and blazing, and his entire body seemed taut with fury.

I was just reading this book, I said, a little alarmed at the expression on his face. I don’t remember the second Ilian War. Was it long ago?

He hesitated, staring first at me and then at the slim volume in my hand.

A few centuries ago, he said finally. Although he seemed to relax, tendons popped out on the side of his neck.

What is the matter, Gabril? You look like you’re going to explode.

His body unbent immediately, a small smile coming to his lips. I have a headache. I was just wondering who you were talking to. That’s all.

Why? Am I not allowed to have guests? I raised my eyebrows and smiled to take the sting from my words.

Don’t be silly, my sweet, he said curtly, coming to stand before me and taking the book from