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48. Matilda

All day I’ve hidden in the bookcase-lined study. Hours of seeing nothing but emerald green fabrics and dark mahogany wood. I knew at any moment Cillian could rush in here, busy with funeral arrangements so I made a little den for myself. Curled up in a ball in the far corner of the room, where the meeting table wraps around at an angle.

I know it would offer little protection. After a few hours in here, my scent would be obvious to anyone walking in, but I don’t want to let him down.

Being able to cry everything out onto his chest was the greatest relief. He let me grieve without judgement. Knowing I won’t be able to honour Papa with a funeral pyre, I mourned him all the way home.

He was the most perfect father. To all of us. We knew every single day we were his pride and joy. Some in Cragstone laughed at him for having so many daughters, but he would always reply we were more useful to the pack than any man.

On the last leg of the journey, when I swapped seats with Zena, I held
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