She went back to the fire because the alternative was to stand in the dark behind a barn with her lips swollen and a sentence ringing in her ears. Not like this. What did that even mean? She smoothed her dress, re-pinned the ruined braid with shaking fingers, and plucked a piece of straw from her hair, and after a moment’s hesitation, put it in her pocket for reasons she refused to examine.
The festival had resumed in her absence, loud and bright and determinedly merry, the way a house resumes after a quarrel. Nobody looked at her directly. Everybody looked at her. Isolde had vanished, and Kael was nowhere to be seen, and Ariana, standing at the edge of the firelight with a fresh cup of cider she did not want, had never felt so entirely like a stranger at someone else’s party.
Roan Thorn
