Evangeline's throat went dry just as another book was gently placed atop her arm, its weight grounding her even as her thoughts spiraled. The shock still had not left her. She kept turning Steward's words over in her mind, struggling to understand what he meant, what it implied, that the Lord had killed his brother, and more disturbingly, why Steward's expression held no visible grief.
There was no bitterness there, no tremor in his hands, no tightness around his eyes. Only the serenity of a calm lake.
Steward was, by all accounts, the most humane presence in the castle. He spoke kindly, moved gently, and treated even silence with respect. It felt impossible that such a man could feel nothing toward the death of his own brother. And yet, as he stood before her now, he seemed utterly unshaken.
