I met Rhys’s stare across the table. What was that about? Rhys sliced into his glazed ham in smooth, skilled strokes. It had nothing to do with Cassian. Oh? Rhys took a bite, gesturing with his knife for me to eat. Let’s just say it hit a little close to home. At my beat of confusion, he added, There are some scars when it comes to how his mother was treated. Many scars. His mother, who had been a servant—near-slave—when he was born. And afterward. None of us bother to wait for everyone to sit, least of all Cassian. It can strike at odd times.
