I felt better. Actually better. For the first time in weeks.
“What was that?”
“Medicine.” Thessa’s expression was complicated, guarded in a way I hadn’t seen from her before. “For an illness that was making you sick. You should feel much improved now.”
“An illness,” I repeated flatly. “And you just happened to have the cure.”
“It’s a long story.” Thessa sat on the edge of the bed, watching me with careful eyes. “Listen. I’m not going to defend my brother. What he did was awful, cruel, and unforgivable.”
My jaw tightened. “Good. Because I don’t want to hear it.”
“But.” Thessa held up a hand. “He didn’t do it because he doesn’t love you. He had a reason. A pressuring, valid, life-or-death reason. And when you’re feeling better, when you’re ready, you should hear him out.”
“I don’t want to hear anything from him ever again.”
“I know. I’m just asking you not to hate him completely. Not yet. Not until you know everything.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to scream that I had every right to hate him, that he humiliated me in front of the entire court, that he rejected our bond and our child without even flinching. That I had trusted him with everything I had and he’d thrown it back in my face in front of hundreds of people.
But Thessa’s eyes were sincere. And I was too exhausted to fight her on this.
“I’m not promising anything,” I said finally.
“I’m not asking you to.” Thessa stood. “Now. Would you like to learn about your family?”
I would. Goddess help me, I would.
We spent the next three days exploring the cabin.
And by “exploring,” I mean I turned into an emotional disaster zone who cried over literally everything. A dusty teacup? Tears. A faded curtain? More tears. A creaky floorboard that might have once held my tiny childhood feet? Full-on sobbing.
It was pathetic. I was pathetic. But I couldn’t stop.
I found my father’s study on the second day, a room filled with books and maps and scientific instruments I’d never seen before, all layered in dust. There was a portrait on the wall of a man with dark hair and kind eyes, a serious expression softened by laugh lines. Torven Mirabelle. My father.
I stared at him for a long time, trying to find pieces of myself in his face: the shape of my eyes, the curve of my jaw, anything that connected me to this stranger who had loved me, protected me, died trying to keep me safe.
He looked kind. He looked the type of dad who would make terrible jokes and embarrass you in front of your friends and love you so fiercely it hurt.
I wouldn’t know. I’d never gotten the chance to find out.
In the kitchen, I discovered my mother’s handwriting. A recipe book, filled with notes and adjustments, splattered with old stains from long-ago cooking experiments. “Add more honey, Torven has a sweet tooth.” “Riley’s favorite, make for her birthday.”
Riley’s favorite.
I was mentioned by name. I existed here, in this house, in this family. I was loved. Someone had made my favorite food for my birthday. Someone had cared enough to write it down.
I didn’t even know what my favorite food was. I couldn’t remember. Twenty-one years had stolen that from me, along with everything else.
The tears came again, but they were different this time. Less bitter. More healing.
Or maybe I was just dehydrated from all the crying. Hard to tell at this point.
There were toys in a chest in one of the bedrooms: wooden animals that had been hand-carved, a doll with real hair missing one arm, picture books with illustrations of wolves and forests and castles. My toys, things I played with as a child, before everything was taken from me.
The doll was missing an arm. I wondered if I’d been the one to break it, or if that happened after. I wondered if I’d cried when it happened. I wondered a lot of things I would never know the answers to.
Memories started to surface at the edges of my mind: a flash of sunlight on water, laughter that might have been mine, being lifted high into the air by strong arms, a woman’s voice singing a lullaby I almost remembered.
