Mar
She had wanted to argue, and she had known she should.
But in the end, it was Valgar, and like many times before, she had indulged in the softness of his care, the unfailing strength he could offer, a bulwark against the world that would have named her a failure.
His constant assurances were barely necessary when he looked at her the way he did every day for the last fifteen years.
If it had only been a feeling, she might have convinced herself it was her own grief speaking.
But Valgar was too kind not to indulge the servants’ children when they played around the courtyard, and so she had caught him swinging a boy around or hiding an apple behind his back and making a little girl guess in which hand it was concealed—then giving her the fruit with a flourish regardless of what she chose.
She had felt the joy rising off him, heard his easy laugh.
In sum, she knew.