"Ah." He leaned back, studying her. "She told you about her mark."
"She showed me. What was left of it anyway." Briar met his gaze. "Scars and constant agony. Is that what I have to look forward to?"
"No." Something flickered in his eyes. "Her mark was... different. A reminder. Yours is complete."
Complete? What did that even mean? Before she could ask, the second course was carried in by servants who kept their eyes down and heads low. On her plate was meat so tender it fell apart at a glance, accompanied by vegetables she couldn't name. The colors were wrong. Too vivid. Too alive.
"Eat," he commanded. "And use the correct fork."
Three forks lay beside her plate. She reached for one.
"Not that one."
She tried another.
"Are you deliberately obtuse or was a night in my garden not enough?" He stood, circled the table to stand behind her chair. Briar felt her entire body go tense as he leaned in close. "This one."
His hand covered hers, guiding it to the leftmost fork. The touch sent a chill through her and she shivered.
"Cold?" His breath stirred her hair. "Perhaps you should have worn something warmer."
"Maybe you should have given me something warmer."
"Careful." His free hand came to rest on her bare shoulder, his fingers were warm, curling in tightly as though to remind her who was in control. "That tongue will earn you trouble."
She stayed very still as he guided her hand through cutting the meat, spearing it, lifting it to her lips. The forced intimacy of it made her stomach turn.
"Open."
Briar obeyed, lips parting so he could slide the fork between them. His eyes tracked the movement with an intensity that made heat crawl up her neck.
"Chew slowly," he instructed. "Everything here deserves savoring."
It tasted of summer memories, which made no sense but felt true. She chewed, swallowed, tried not to think about his hand still on her shoulder.
"Your father," he said suddenly. "You never knew him."
Why was he bringing up her father? Briar fought to keep herself from reacting in a way that he might exploit. "No."
"Yet you visit his memorial and leave flowers for a stranger." His thumb traced her collarbone, just above where the dress began. "Why?"
"He's not a stranger. He's my father."
"Is he? What makes a father? Is it blood or presence? He died before you drew breath. You're mourning a ghost of a ghost."
"How do you—" She stopped. Of course he knew. He'd been there that night, hadn't he? Besides, the forest saw everything.
"Tell me what your mother told you about him."
"That's none of your business."
His hand tightened slightly where it came to rest at the base of her throat. "The truth, little thief. Or shall I feed you the rest of this meal myself? Treat you as the child who can't manage basic honesty?"
Tears pricked her eyes. "She said he was kind. That he worked hard... that he would have loved me."
"Would have." His hand fell away and he retreated at last, returning to his seat and leaving cold spots where he'd touched. "Such conditional comfort. Did she mention how they got into the accident? Did she tell you what they fought about that night?"
Dread pooled in her stomach. Her mother had rarely spoken of that night, of the details leading up to the crash. The only thing she had ever talked about was about the goblin king, about him, Eliam. "Stop."
