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She had been born into it, but it was not where she would die. She would regain her freedom, even if she had to resort to underhanded tactics to get it. The Trust would not own her any longer.
Promises broken were what she’d come to expect, along with more than her share of unfortunate luck, but it would be different this time. She had no other choice.
Kings had their crowns, but the Trust held the power. It didn’t matter how one was entangled with the Trust, whether it was the threat of debt, shame, or fear of retribution—to be among court society meant that one could never associate with those who dealt in magical favors.
She hated tithe day more than anything, and her list of hates was amply long.
“Daughter of Bancroft Weston.” The voice came from the end of the corridor, from a figure made faceless by the shadows of stone. “Lady Weston,” Nimona said. “I am not owned by my father.”
She might not have been owned by her father, but she was owned by his debt. Her life was signed to the Trust.
Whatever he’d owed, it was hers to repay, even if her face would be cut, even if she was to be marked as owned.
