“Mother,” Mariselle said, lowering her fork and directing a polished smile at Lady Brightcrest, “perhaps we might discuss something else? I’ve been meaning to enquire about the plans for?—”
“Of course not, dear,” Lady Brightcrest interrupted. “Lord Rowanwood is to be your husband. He ought to know precisely what he’s getting.”
The silence that followed Lady Brightcrest’s pronouncement stretched like a taut wire. Evryn’s grip tightened on his wine glass as he absorbed the casual cruelty of her words. Around the table, the other family members seemed perfectly content with this assessment, as though discussing Mariselle’s perceived deficiencies was nothing out of the ordinary.
“Indeed,” Lord Brightcrest added, dabbing at his mouth with a pristine napkin. “We do apologize, Lord Rowanwood, for the rather unfortunate circumstances. Had the soulbond not appeared, I’m certain your affections would have naturally gravitated toward someone more suitable.”
Ellowa’s laugh tinkled. “Poor Mari. At least the soulbond ensures you won’t have a choice in the matter, Lord Rowanwood. Otherwise, I fear she’d have remained quite permanently unattached.”
Evryn glanced at Petunia as something cold settled in his chest. Petunia’s knuckles had gone white around her fork, though she kept her gaze fixed resolutely on her plate. Even she, who clearly cared for Mariselle, remained silent in the face of this systematic dismantling.
“Of course, we’ve done our best with her,” Lady Clemenbell continued, gesturing toward Mariselle as though she were an unsatisfactory piece of furniture. “But some deficiencies simply cannot be corrected through proper guidance. Her artistic pursuits, for instance. Hardly the sort of accomplishments that benefit a family of our standing.”
Hardly the sort of—Evryn almost blurted out that she’d created an entire wonderland from nothing but her imagination. But that was Mariselle’s secret to reveal, not his.
Across the table, he watched as her lips pressed into a thin line and she inhaled deeply through her nose. Her eyes took on a glassy quality as she stared through her plate rather than at it, retreating somewhere deep within herself.
Lord Dawndale cleared his throat diplomatically. “Perhaps we might speak of more pleasant matters? The weather has been quite?—”
“Nonsense,” Lady Clemenbell waved him off. “Lord Rowanwood is to be family. Better he understand precisely what sort of burden the soulbond has saddled him with. At least he’ll be aware of how low to keep his expectations.”
The remark struck Evryn with the force of a clenched fist wrapped in silk. This wasn’t merely family teasing or gentle correction. This was an artfully delivered gutting, wrapped in the veneer of parental concern. And Mariselle didn’t flinch. She merely sat there, spine straight, like someone who knew better than to bleed where her parents could see.
And all of a sudden, there it was. The truth presenting itself plainly for the first time: The mask Evryn had mistaken for years as Brightcrest arrogance was in fact a shield, painstakingly crafted to deflect the constant barrage of familial disappointment. She hadn’t built walls to keep others out, but to keep herself intact within the very place that should have nurtured her.
“Well,” Lady Brightcrest continued airily, “at least she’s learned not to argue when corrected. That’s some improvement, I suppose.”
“A blessing indeed,” Lord Brightcrest agreed. “Nothing quite so unattractive as a woman who cannot accept criticism gracefully.”
Something inside Evryn snapped.
“I’m afraid I must disagree,” he said, his voice cutting through the conversation.
The table fell silent. Every eye turned to him, and he could feel the sudden tension crackling in the air.
“I beg your pardon?” Lady Brightcrest’s eyebrows rose in delicate surprise.
Evryn set down his wine glass with deliberate care and leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping the assembled faces before settling on Mariselle’sparents. “I said I disagree. With your assessment of Lady Mariselle. And I feel compelled to correct what appears to be a fundamental misunderstanding.”
Lord Brightcrest’s brow drew lower. “I assure you, Lord Rowanwood, there is no misunderstanding. We are merely being forthright about our daughter’s limitations and?—”
“With all due respect, Lord Brightcrest,” Evryn continued, his tone remaining pleasant even as his eyes hardened, “there is indeed a grave misunderstanding if you believe that I consider myself in any way tolerant of Lady Mariselle’s ‘limitations,’ as you put it. One cannot tolerate that which does not exist.”
Lord Brightcrest blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“What I mean to say,” Evryn elaborated, “is that Lady Mariselle possesses no limitations of which I am aware. Quite the contrary.”
He turned to meet Mariselle’s wide-eyed gaze directly.
“In my observation, Lady Mariselle possesses an intellect that is nothing short of extraordinary and quite possibly one of the most vibrant imaginations I’ve ever encountered. And beneath her carefully maintained reserve lies a remarkable warmth and optimism that is nothing short of magnetic. I find myself captivated by the genuine light she carries within her, carefully hidden though it may be from those who don’t care enough to look.”
A hushed stillness fell over the table as he continued, his voice gathering quiet strength.
“Beyond these traits, she has shown herself to be possessed of remarkably sharp wit and resourcefulness. She observes and understands the subtleties of social dynamics with a perception I’ve rarely encountered.” A pointed glance around the table. “A skill I imagine has been honed through considerable practice.”
Lady Brightcrest’s mouth had thinned to a tight line.
“As for her magical capabilities,” Evryn continued, warming to his subject, “I can only assume that if she has ever appeared anything less than exceptional, it was by deliberate choice rather than any inherent deficiency.”
