After Richard and Frederick file out of the room to get back to their respective duties, Liana lingers next to me on my bed, picking at a puckered thread in the quilt and watching me with wariness heavy in her dark eyes. She seems afraid of me, which is strange since it’s often the other way around.
“You didn’t bring me into the meeting with my mother,” she says after a moment, each consonant sharp enough to cut.
“I thought it would be cruel, asking you to take my side over hers like that,” I say, but it’s a half-truth that she sees through immediately.
Her eyes narrow and she gets to her feet abruptly. “I don’t need pity, least of all from you.” Her voice is low and dangerous.
The words hurt. “I don’t pity you,” I say, though I’m not sure whether or not that’s true. But Liana doesn’t
