“Do what?”
“Pretend to be kind.”
I looked up at him. The lamplight carved deep shadows into the scars on his face.
“I’m not pretending,” I said.
“Everyone pretends. Especially those who want something from me.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” I said honestly. “I’m only here because of my father’s mistake. If I’m going to be here anyway, I’d rather be decent about it than bitter.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, quietly: “Your father is a fool.”
“Yes,” I said. “He is.”
“And yet you protected his name at the gala. When that man insulted me, you were thinking of him. Of the loan.”
“No,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking of the loan. I was thinking that nobody deserves to be mocked for something they can’t control.”
Something shifted in his expression. Something I had never seen before. His mouth parted slightly, as though he wanted to say a word and couldn’t find it.
Then he closed it, turned his wheelchair away, and said in a rough voice:
“That is enough for tonight. Go to bed.”
But when I reached my room, I found something on my pillow.
A small, dark-blue velvet box.
Inside was a simple silver bracelet with a single charm shaped like a tiny open book.
There was no note.
I never asked about it.
But I wore it every day after that.
