Eleanor's POV
I forced myself to stop crying, scrubbing at my face with the back of my hand. The raw grief began to harden into something else, something pointed and angry.
A memory, cut through the haze.
I lifted my head, turning my wet, burning eyes from the celebrating screen to my mother. The displeasure on my face was no longer about the broadcast.
"Why," I asked, my voice strained, "didn't you tell me I was in some kind of betrothal to Hugo Thorne?"
My mother's expression didn't change, but a flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—passed through her eyes. Before she could answer, Nomad moved.
He stepped in front of me, placing himself between my gaze and our mother. His own obscured face tilted down toward mine. "I was the one who advised that you should not be aware of it until later," he said, his tone that same infuriating monotone. "Until you had settled into your role and accepted… everything else. It was for your own focus."
