Rosamund
"Fuck!" I said through gritted teeth.
I slid to the ground slowly, pressing my back against the door and covering my face with both hands.
"This place keeps dragging out parts of me that I hate," I muttered. "I can't wait to get out of this hell."
The voices from the main hall continued to seep through the floor, muffled now but persistent. The woman's wailing had subsided into sharp, staccato sobs. The man's voice rose and fell in waves, punctuated by Clyde's measured responses. I couldn't make out the words, but the tone was clear enough.
Grief. Rage. The fury of parents who had entrusted their daughter to a powerful man and gotten back a broken shell.
At least they cared.
Tears welled in my eyes as the last conversation with my father drifted into my mind. Since I'd come to Wellspring, not a single word from him. Not a letter, not a message through a servant, not even a passing inquiry to know whether his daughter was alive or dead.
