Calista sat stiffly upon a velvet cushion near the frost-latticed window, her spine straight, her chin lifted, her hands folded delicately in her lap—every inch the picture of composure expected of a princess of Emberhold.
The room the North had assigned her was… acceptable.
Spacious. Warm despite the ever-present chill of Frostmere. Draped in pale silks and furs, with carved icewood furniture and a hearth made to burn with smokeless flame. It was exquisite and beautiful.
Everything a woman of her rank would require had been provided.
And yet, none of it pleased her.
Her mood had soured the moment the news reached her ears.
Neris had taken a concubine. If her father didn't talk about it right where they were being received by the north, she wouldn't have known about it.
