Page 57 of The Winner's Curse
“Father—”
“Stop.”
“It’s not true. I—”
“We will not have this discussion.” His hand lifted to block his eyes, then fell. “Kestrel, I’m not here for that. I’m here to tell you that I’m leaving. The emperor is sending me east to fight the barbarians.”
It wasn’t the first time in Kestrel’s memory that her father had been sent to war, but the fear she felt was always the same, always keen. “For how long?”
“As long as it takes. I leave the morning of the ball with my regiment.”
“The entire regiment?”
He caught the tone in her voice. He sighed. “Yes.”
“That means there will be no soldiers in the city or its surroundings. If there’s a problem—”
“The city guard will be here. The emperor feels they can deal with any problem, at least until a force arrives from the capital.”
“Then the emperor is a fool. The captain of the city guard isn’t up to the task. You yourself said that the new captain is nothing but a bungler, someone who got the position because he’s the governor’s toady—”
“Kestrel.” His voice was quelling. “I’ve already expressed my reservations to the emperor. But he gave me orders. It’s my duty to follow them.”
Kestrel studied her fingers, the way they wove together. She didn’t say Come back safely, and he didn’t say I always have. She said what a Valorian should. “Fight well.”
“I will.”
He was halfway to the door when he glanced back and said, “I’m trusting you to do what’s right while I’m gone.”
Which meant that he didn’t trust her—not quite.
* * *
Later that day, Lirah brought Kestrel’s lunch. The slave wouldn’t look at her. She set the tray down on a low table near the divan where Kestrel rested, and her movements were hurried, shaky. She spilled some tea.
“There’s no need to rush,” Kestrel said.
The girl’s hands quieted, but her breath became uneven and harsh. A tear slipped down her cheek.
Kestrel suddenly understood why Lirah was rushing: because it was unbearable to stay any longer than necessary in the same room as her mistress.
Her mistress, who everyone thought had taken the lover Lirah wished were hers.
Kestrel should have felt pity. An urge to explain that what Lirah believed—what the whole city must believe—wasn’t true. Instead, Kestrel couldn’t help gazing at the girl’s beauty, at the way tears made her green eyes greener. She wondered what Arin’s sweetheart must be like, if Lirah couldn’t change his choice.
As Kestrel tried to imagine the girl in the market—Arin’s girl—a slow thought came to her.
Was this why Arin avoided her? Because the scandal had reached his sweetheart’s ears?
A surge of anger pushed up Kestrel’s throat.
She hated her. She hated that faceless, nameless woman.
“Fetch me a parasol,” Kestrel told Lirah. “And get out.”
* * *
The parasol wasn’t a very good cane. Its tip dug into the hard, grassless earth, and the folded frame creaked as Kestrel limped across the grounds. But it brought her where she needed to go.
