Dantalion is afraid

Before Dantalion had closed the door behind him—almost before he had opened and stepped through it—Eithne cried, “No! I don’t want you!”

Before Dantalion had closed the door behind him—almost before he had opened and stepped through it—Eithne cried, “No! I don’t want you!”

They had not been alone together until now, but the gaze of Condal’s dim eyes had scarcely left Eithne’s face since she had arrived. Eithne knew it, for she could not bear to be looked upon. The black mark on Cian’s cheek was an elegant adornment beside the stain she wore. And her sister sometimes saw things others did not.

“That is not Leofric,” Malcolm said gravely after a moment’s consideration. “If he took the stairs that quickly, you would have heard him coming from farther off than that.”

No one had yet sent for Eithne; and they had been speaking softly enough that without Lasrua’s ears, she would not have known anyone had come at all.

Dunstan was startled, but he was far from shocked. The eldest son of Matilda was well-aware that even great ladies did occasionally find the contents of their stomach objectionable upon awakening.

The first thing Britamund heard upon waking was her maid chanting, “Good morning, Your Highness! Rise and shine!”

To Araphel that face meant only one thing: an obstacle. He had seen it so often in unidentical circumstances that he briefly forgot he was the one standing in the doorway and the elf the one standing before the door.

Pretty as the back of Sigrid’s neck was beneath her coils of hair, Eirik did not like to see that beloved head bowed any time other than Sunday mornings and anywhere outside of a church. He liked it least of all in the middle of a busy afternoon, alone in the bedroom.

It was just as it had been when he was a boy—Dasi’s grandmother and her bat’s ears; that same sinking feeling in his stomach and drooping feeling in his arms; the same embarrassment at being caught sneaking in, the same dread.…
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