“How can you let her go?” I ask, my teeth hard against one another. His face is blank and barren, like another language, impenetrable. He says, “I must speak with my mother.” “Go then,” I snarl. I watch him leave. My stomach feels burned to cinders; my palms ache where my nails have cut into them. I do not know this man, I think. He is no one I have ever seen before. My rage towards him is hot as blood. I will never forgive him. I imagine tearing down our tent, smashing the lyre, stabbing myself in the stomach and bleeding to death. I want to see his face broken with grief and regret. I want
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