Carcel got up from the chair, opened the curtain to let in more light and stood at the window, his back to the room, a rigid, dark, and utterly silent silhouette against the bright, accusing morning light. He was staring, unseeing, at the cheerful, orderly, sunlit square.
Rowan was still sitting on his chair, a rumpled, exhausted, and profoundly confused man, baffled by his friend's sudden, cold, and violent reaction.
Carcel's hands were clasped so tightly behind his back that his knuckles ached.
"Why are you so intent on marrying her off?" He asked. His voice was quiet, reasonable. It was the voice he used at business meetings, the one that held no emotion, and that, for that very reason, was terrifying.
Rowan stared at him, his mouth open. "What?" he asked, as if Carcel had just, very calmly, suggested they burn the house down. "What kind of a question is that? She is a woman. She is of age. It is my duty."
