"Therese, you promised to help me."
Tristan's voice carried sharper than usual, enough that Tara, seated near the hearth, set aside her mending and turned her head.
They had gathered in the sitting room after supper. The lamps burned low, shadows stretching long across the walls. The fire was steady, but the warmth did not reach Tristan's tone.
Therese lifted her chin. "I am helping."
"No, you're not," Tristan snapped. "We have not even launched the new businesses—warding, storage, waystations—and already we have lost our steward. Kim begged off. He'll finish his contract here, and then he plans to ask for a new post. Do you realize what that means?"
Therese's lips pressed together. She had expected this. She had dreaded it. But hearing her brother's disappointment so plainly made her shoulders tense.
"What happened?" Tristan pressed, unable to keep the frustration from spilling out.
