The door swung wide like it had been waiting seven years to do it. My father filled the frame—taller than I remembered, grayer, angrier. My mother stood at his shoulder, chin high, eyes bright with a fury that had learned good manners.
“Take your hands off my daughter," my father said again, and the corridor learned what gravity sounded like in a voice.
Taylor stepped back. “Beta Hale—"
“Don't," my father warned, and the warning made the walls stand up straighter. “You lost the right to courtesy when you chose Joanna over my child at the cliff."
Mara slid sideways, giving my mother space. My mother crossed the room in three quick steps and gathered my face in both palms like she was rescuing a dropped teacup. “Caroline," she breathed, and the name was water after a winter. “Let me see.
