Rowan
"Why are you so scared of me, Father?"
The question had been sitting in my chest for so long that when it finally slipped out, it surprised even me.
I was young. Too young to understand the full weight of what I was asking, but old enough to notice the way his eyes changed whenever they landed on me. The servants' children would speak of their fathers with warmth, admiration, and the simple uncomplicated love that came from being held and protected.
I didn't know what that felt like.
So I asked.
And for a moment, he just stared at me.
His face went through a different range of emotions, or maybe it was just the discomfort of being seen clearly by a child who should have been too young to notice anything at all.
Then he hit me.
Again, and again, and again.
If I cried out, or even made any sound at all, Mother would hear.
She would come running, and then Father's attention would shift.
It was good to be silent.
