Abney held a leather cord in one fat fist. The other end was
looped around a thin, vulnerable neck.
The nobleman dragged his “daughter” with the precise
opposite of regard for her welfare. Breanne was naked, shivering, obviously
terrified ... and the heartbreaking part was the implicit trust in her wide
brown eyes. She was six, perhaps seven years old; the twins had been right.
Thin, pale, sickly. Scars crisscrossed on the parts of her body which normally
would have been covered by clothing: upper arms, upper thighs, back, and
buttocks. Belly.
Thin scares. Innocuous scars. Fresh scars.
How long had he had this girl? Had William’s master sold her?
“Come down here, dearie,” Abney said, in a false falsetto.
He was making a fake attempt at accommodation, and the lie was put to it when
the girl didn’t follow his instructions quickly enough. He yanked on the cord, causing little Breanne to pitch forward and
stumble down the stairs, and land in a heap at her hulking master’s feet.
Abney opened his mouth, perhaps to see if she was hurt; or,
perhaps a rainbow of divine healing magic would fall from his lips like the
spittle of a unicorn.
Breanne whimpered pitifully, trying to force herself to her
feet. Again, she wasn’t quick enough.
“Idiot girl!” Abney howled, and kicked her. “Always you vex
me! Always you embarrass me! To the end you prove a nuisance!”
Sithe glanced up at the doorway from which Abney and Breanne
had entered this arena of deadly séances. Impossibly, apocalyptically, Sythius
Sil’nathin was there. He’d pulled the bear pelt over himself, covering his face
with the beast’s own head.
The result was ... horrifying.
* * *
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