wanted you to know,” she whispered, and he eyed her peripherally, “that I was trying to make a point to my father about choice. With the red dress and raven feathers. I wasn’t trying to offend you, although it occurred to me that that’s exactly what might’ve happened. I’m sorry.” “What point was that?” he answered, just as quiet, looking ahead. She exhaled lengthily. “That we should have a say in our own futures.” He stiffened. “You didn’t have a say.” That steely velvet voice was low, icy. A dreaded conclusion? Willing? he’d asked during the ceremony. He had cared. Maybe more than she’d
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