A/N: Thank you, Lisa, for your very helpful and timely suggestions on this chapter. I'd be lost without you! Seriously.

The Strings of a Puppet

Sunlight was filtering through the thin curtains in Anders's living quarters. The clinic doors were shut and bolted. Anders was in a mage-induced sleep, his breathing low and even. Their preparations complete, Margaret knew they were as ready as they could be. She stared at the vial of pale green liquid she was about to drink, and then at Merrill. "Are you sure you want to try this?"

The Dalish elf smiled nervously and shook her head before nodding once, showing her own nervousness. "It should work, but if it doesn't, I rely on you to follow my last wishes to the letter. All of them," she added with surprising authority, underscored by a hint of humor.

"I will, Merrill, but don't think like that. You are so much stronger than you're given credit for."

"Yes, I am, I'm only surprised to hear you admit it," Merrill replied with quiet dignity. "If I was truly as foolish as you all think, I would have succumbed to what you call demons a long time ago. And no," the elf continued, raising her hands in surrender, "I don't want another philosophical discussion on spirits versus demons."

Margaret blinked, stung by the honest assessment and wondering who else she had underestimated since she had managed to misjudge Merrill so badly. Fenris cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable and disbelieving. She shot him a warning glance and he gave her a scowl before turning his face away.

He thought she had lost her mind to want to help Anders, even more so to ask for Merrill's assistance with her blood magic. As far as Fenris was concerned Anders was so far beyond help he needed to be put down. Maybe he was right, but as a healer she couldn't bring herself to write him off without trying everything at her disposal, including blood magic. Not that she was using blood magic, but Merrill would be and she would be using that as a conduit to 'ride' the spell, as the book explained.

The fight that their opposing views had sparked had lasted for more than an hour with neither of them willing to concede their point. It was to Fenris's credit that he'd finally sighed and confessed that he was terrified of losing her, of having the Magisters take one more thing from him. She'd promised not to let anything happen to her, that she would be safe because she wouldn't be in the Fade. He'd consented, but unhappily so.

With another nod, she put a hand on Anders's forehead and whispered a sleep spell. "Be careful, Merrill," she instructed and downed the liquid from the vial, shuddering as the taste burned until it hit her stomach, causing it to lurch.

Both ladies sat down in chairs they'd placed beside Anders's bed. Merrill reached into her kit and pulled out a small, sharp knife, then quickly drew it across her palm. Dropping the knife, she picked up Margaret's hand and gave a nod.

"Ready?"

With an abrupt, nervous nod, Margaret closed her eyes and began the archaic incantation that she had found in an old book of spells. Not blood magic, although Fenris saw little difference between Merrill's blood magic and Margaret's trailing along in its wake. Magisters had perfected the technique as a way to show off their powers of mind control to their friends and she had learned about it purely by chance while searching old bookstalls in Lowtown for a book for Fenris.

A disorienting miasma permeated her thoughts as she clung to Merrill's hand. Merrill seemed to be striding confidently down long corridors, pulling Margaret with her, but the corridors were deserted and the only sound was a low keening, a mournful sound that heightened Margaret's disquiet.

"Anders! Yoo-hoo!" Merrill called out in a friendly, cheerful voice, making Margaret flinch at both tone and volume. "I've brought Margaret with me," she added.

"You aren't supposed to be here."

The voice was young and petulant and definitely not Anders. Margaret could feel her nerves twitching as the hair on her arms rose. "Who is that?" she whispered.

"Maybe it's that child Varric mentioned? He doesn't sound too happy about us being here, which is a good sign."

A shiver gave chase along her spine to coil around the nerves in her stomach. Her palms were damp, and she gripped Merrill's hand more tightly, causing Merrill to wince.

"Are you Anders's little friend?" Merrill asked in the same friendly tone.

"Go away. Anders is sleeping."

"There's someone else here, too. A spirit. Justice?" Merrill asked and a shimmering white light came into view, moving along the corridor, gaining shape and form as it neared them.

"It is unwise of you to travel here. I cannot guarantee your safety."

"Justice? Is that who you are? Please, we want to know what's happened and to help, if we can," Margaret implored softly, her voice shaking with nerves.

"Come with me," the spirit replied and they followed it down another snaking corridor. The figure came to a halt and wavered and shimmered, a pale white apparition, limned in gold, ethereal and beautiful. The spirit's expression was sorrowful. "His mind is fractured; I am unable to reach him. I sought to help but I fear I have caused irreparable damage. It would be merciful to end his life."

"And that would end yours as well?" Merrill asked, her voice calm and thoughtful.

"I will cease to exist, yes."

"Is there no way for you to return to your domain in the Fade?" Margaret queried, feeling unaccountably sorry for the spirit that stood before her.

"There is not. If there was any way to do so I would not avail myself of it. I have been contaminated by the emotions I was exposed to. I have felt love and envy, hate and grief. To return to my realm would only taint those already inhabiting that realm. It would seem my former commander was correct. No good came from such a fusion of spirit and man."

"You mean Anya warned you against merging and you did it anyway?"

"She did. But Anders and I agreed that we knew better than Commander Anya. I was impatient; I had already experienced the weakened emotions of the body I inhabited and I was compelled to experience more deeply defined emo – " his voice trailed off and he cocked his head, listening to something in the distance that Margaret couldn't hear.

"That decision was irrevocable and wrong. I urge you to leave now, and end his madness."

Margaret felt torn as she stood there, clinging to Merrill's hand and weighing the spirit's words carefully. "If you are remorseful, perhaps Anders is too and we can still find a way to separate you."

"That is not possible. Anders's mind may heal, given time, but we are inextricably bound and that will cause instability in him, no matter how much you insist on intervening. Heal him now, but he may yet again worsen in time, do you understand?"

Shoulders slumping, Margaret felt Merrill's grip tighten in reassurance, and she found herself pushing aside the profound sadness that was overcoming her to speak again. "Fallon is the little boy that Anders thought was real. Who is he? Is he the key to healing Anders's mind?"

"Fallon is the personification of Anders's childhood. He is Anders."

Recoiling in shock, as if she'd been punched in the gut, Margaret found herself speechless as her mind reeled from the implication.

"I've heard of something similar, Hawke. The Dalish would call Fallon a splinter in the mind's eye."

"He was a puppet. And then for a time it was Anders who was the puppet. Now Fallon is trying to protect himself. He is aware of what he is and knows that Anders has power over him, that his time is inexorably drawing to a close and that nothing he can do will prevent that. He will fight, and it was such a battle that caused Anders to fall into this malaise-induced sleep."

"So if we are able to get Fallon to leave, will Anders's mind begin to heal?" Margaret inquired hopefully.

A sigh, as soft as a summer breeze, emanated from the spirit. It was a sigh of regret, in Margaret's mind, a whispered acknowledgement of remorse. "For the time being, yes, but it is a temporary state."

"We'll figure something out, Justice," Margaret avowed with more conviction than she felt.

It was Merrill who asked in a voice that quivered slightly, "Where is Vengeance?"

"I assume he is with Anders," the spirit said briskly and began to waver and fade as they stood there. "If you insist on this course of action, remove Fallon and y –"

He was gone, leaving Margaret and Merrill standing alone in the dark corridor. Margaret was shaking from both his abrupt departure and a fear that went straight to her blood and chilled it.

"So, Fallon it is," Merrill said with little enthusiasm. "He isn't here, Hawke. We need to go back the way we came."

"I don't even know what to make of all this," Margaret said as they turned and began retracing their steps.

They came to a branch in the corridor and Merrill paused, tapping her chin in contemplation. "Something is fighting me, Hawke. I think it's Fallon and I think it's this way," she said quietly and Margaret gripped her hand tightly again, pulling at her to slow down.

"How are we supposed to send this splinter away?" Margaret asked.

"Scare it, cajole it, lie to it, promise it anything, it doesn't matter."

"All the things you aren't supposed to do to a demon or spirit?"

"This isn't a spirit or a demon, Hawke. It's a piece of Anders's fragmented mind. Think of it like a splinter in a hand…do whatever is necessary to remove it to stop the hand from becoming infected."

Only marginally reassured, Margaret allowed herself to be pulled along again, trusting that Merrill knew what she was doing, a state she had never thought possible and she felt a wave of shame flood through her. "This isn't the Fade, so how will it work?"

Merrill stopped and sighed, her normally sweet smile looking grim at the edges and her expression impatient. "Hawke, I've explained this several times. My blood magic allows me into a person's mind, which is where we are. Your spell allowed you to take the journey with me as long as we stay in physical contact. If you're afraid, let go of my hand and you'll wake up."

"I want to be sure we aren't going to make the problem worse."

"Anders is sick. Fallon is the cause of the illness. Get rid of the cause and Anders will be cured. At least," the elf finished, looking sheepish, "I think that's right."

There wasn't anything else they could do for Anders. Two days of trying had proven that. This was their last hope and Margaret couldn't bring herself to deny that hope. She nodded, grateful beyond measure for Merrill's surprising strength and courage.

"Onward," she said, offering the elf a gritty half-smile.

They found the young boy down a dark and twisted corridor and Margaret's breath caught at how young and vulnerable he appeared to be. He shook his head. "I knew you'd come. Your type always thinks they can help but what's magic ever done for me? Eh? Speak up, nosy old hag!"

The venom and spite startled Margaret, causing her to involuntarily take a step back. Merrill's grip tightened and she welcomed the painful pressure. "You can't stop being a mage, Fallon. It doesn't work that way," she said, trying to keep her voice kind and even. She took a deep, steadying breath.

"Da always said you could. Bastard tried to beat it out of me. Said he'd make sure I wouldn't use magic again," the boy said bitterly, his voice old beyond his apparent years. Margaret's fear was overcome by pity. "Guess I showed him, in the end, eh?"

"Your father was wrong, do you understand, Fallon? Horribly wrong," she said, striving to keep her voice even and calm, but feeling a sense of helplessness and anger at what Anders had endured as a child.

"I'm not leaving and if you try and make me, you'll be sorry."

How could she reach someone who'd been tortured for being a mage? She looked at Merrill, whose eyes were welling with tears of sympathy. She held her ground, searching for something to say.

"I killed him, ya know. Didn't even need to use magic. Won't need it to kill you neither."

Panic was in the shadows, waiting to control her and Margaret took another deep breath, and then another as her heart slammed into her chest. "I'm sorry for you, Fallon. No child – no person should have to experience that kind of pain. But your time here is done now, do you understand? Now is the time for Anders and you can rest easy, knowing he survived because of your strength."

"No!" Fallon shouted, fury darkening his face. "He's weak. That Justice spirit makes him weak. I'm not going anywhere 'til I know he can take care of hisself."

"You don't have to do that, Fallon. I'll look after Anders. You have my word on it."

"You? That's a laugh. You're weaker than old Justice ever was. All good and proper," he snorted contemptuously.

Margaret winced at the vindictiveness in his tone but held out her hand and forced herself to smile, to relax the taut muscles in her neck and shoulders. "Maybe I am weak, and maybe I'm good and proper, but I'm also real, Fallon, while you're just a figment of his imagination, an echo of his past. I can help him in ways you can't. You know that, it's why you're fighting me so hard. If you really want him to become stronger, go away and stop reminding him of his past."

The pain was instant and intense. Margaret let go of Merrill's hand to grip her head, trying to stifle the pain that shot with white hot intensity through her brain. A low, long scream was torn from her and then her eyes snapped open to find herself staring into Fenris's concerned green eyes as he cradled her in his arms. He had moved with her to a chair across the small room, as if distance would somehow help.

She clung to him as the pain and confusion abated and heard Merrill whisper a healing spell. She looked around to find Merrill sitting in her chair, a wobbly smile on her lips as she healed her palm.

"Is Fallon gone? Or did he kick us out?"

"I think we managed, but I guess time will give us the answer," Merrill replied, shrugging.

"Hawke? What – what's going on?" a hoarse voice asked. She turned to see Anders struggling to sit up, a look of confusion on his face.

Moving to him, she bent and gently pressed him back against his pillows, her hands firm on his shoulders. "Anders, you've been…you've been ill. Do you remember anything?"

Anders blinked again, his eyes moving from her to Merrill, to Fenris and back again. "Wow, that sounds ominous. I – uh – I remember you heading out to the Wounded Coast looking for Saemus? I think. Why? What did I miss?"

He was surprisingly, frighteningly cheerful, even though he was weak and pale, his skin drawn too tightly across bones and sinew, stretched and thin. Margaret felt Fenris's grip tighten on her as her eyes darted to Merrill, who was shaking her head slowly. "I'll just get us some tea – or maybe you're hung – but you probably shouldn't – is there any fresh fruit in the – you know I'll just go round to the market, shall I?" Merrill blathered, her words tumbling over each other in their haste.

They all watched as Merrill hastily left and then Margaret turned her gaze to Anders, seating herself once more in the chair beside his bed. "I don't quite know how to tell you this, Anders," she began hesitantly, her voice gaining strength as she proceeded to explain the events of the past two weeks, carefully avoiding mention of Fallon, focusing instead on the brief, bloody battle with the Arishok and the after effects. She also didn't mention Anya's visit.

Her disquiet grew as she talked, an eerie feeling that he already knew about the events on some level coming to rest in her thoughts and refusing to leave. It was a look in his eyes, a certain slyness in his expression that made the hair on her nape stand up and her heart pound uncomfortably in her chest.

A thought crept in, one that whispered to her that she should have listened to Justice when he'd demanded she end Anders's life.

It was not a thought she wanted to have.

~~~oOo~~~

Pastel pinks still adorned much of the room Anya had grown up in. With white lace and gold leaf accents, it was a room made for a fairy princess but it had never felt like her room so much as a room for the daughter Giselle had always wanted. Anya was not that daughter.

Standing at the window, looking down at her father address his chevaliers, Anya felt as if she had been transported back to her childhood. How many times had she listened to his morning address, watching as he inspected the knights in their gleaming armor, lined up in their perfect rows as they awaited the order to disband and go about their daily patrols? She leaned her forehead against the cool pane of glass, watching her past catch up to her present.

As he had always done when she was a child, Enrique Caron dismissed his men, turned on his heel and marched towards the palace, glancing up at the window where she stood, nodding imperceptibly in acknowledgement. She raised her hand briefly and then turned away from the window, smiling. If everything else changed, at least the rituals of her youth would not. It was a comforting thought.

She refused to forego her armor even though she knew it would upset her mother. Or perhaps some part of her wanted to upset her mother, as childish as that thought was to admit. Their relationship, tainted by bitter words spoken in anger and never properly addressed, had grown even more strained since she'd left home. No matter what she accomplished in her life she would not ever be able to give her mother the two things she most wanted from her: grandchildren and a position in the court of Celene.

Now, with her twisted hip and the resultant limp, her mother's pursuit of perfection in herself and those around her was a failure. Anya should be feeling something more than ambivalence over that fact, but, after years of being made to feel she was a huge disappointment, she found she didn't care enough for it to do more than sting a bit. She finished plaiting her hair, her mind moving beyond her mother to the weightier issues of both Rousel and Raimond de Luc.

Rousel had been detained in the more comfortable cells directly underneath the palace, a place reserved for the nobles who faced incarceration for those rare times when their schemes were thwarted by other nobles during a round of the Grand Game. Her father had doubled the guard, using only his most trusted men but after Raimond de Luc's defection it was impossible for Anya to trust any chevalier except her father.

Thoughts of her encounter with the former chevalier inevitably led to thoughts of who might be behind the acts of counterfeiting. The blade's mark was not a badly made imitation of the royal mark, but a near-perfect replication. And, while she hadn't given it a detailed examination, the armor Raimond had worn bore all the hallmarks of his office.

Someone with the Imperial Smiths was aiding the criminals, but investigating each of them would take time as there were a dozen artisans involved in the arms and armor of the Imperial Court, and a dozen more common laborers. Could her father and brother trust whoever they sent to look into the matter? Regardless, her mind would not be put at ease until she investigated the situation.

And what did Raimond hope to accomplish from his attempt at gaining her trust? Why had he so publicly renounced her father and repudiated the organization many felt he had committed murder in order to join? More to the point, what did his new puppet master hope to learn from her?

A knock on the door stirred her from her reverie and she set the hairbrush aside before rising and making her way to the door. "My lady, it is Clare," a soft voice called.

Shocked and delighted to hear her former maid's voice, Anya opened the door, smiling, and ushered the woman into her room. Carefully taking the tray, she set it aside in favor of hugging the diminutive older woman, whose dark hair was streaked with grey but who still had the look of youth about her in both her smile and dark eyes.

"Tante Clare," Anya greeted affectionately.

"Tut, tut, Poppet, you are not to call me that now that you are grown," the older woman said, turning away but not before Anya spied the pleased smile. The woman who had been her surrogate mother, who had heard all of Anya's hopes and dreams, fears and heartbreak, stood before her as if nothing had changed in the years Anya had been gone.

"Let me look at you, little one."

Anya stood up straight and clasped her hands in front of her as the woman slowly circled her. It was surprising how nervous she still became when those whose opinions she cared about saw her for the first time since the incident. She found she was holding an indrawn breath.

"Raoul had the right of it when he spoke of your injuries. Can you tell me what happened, mon petit chou?"

"I am not permitted to say, but it – " she began.

"Anya, you left your – " Nathaniel stated, entering the room through the tapestry just as she started speaking.

"Nathaniel, come meet - " she began anew, only to be interrupted by Clare.

"Who are you?" Clare Delfensi asked quietly, her voice commanding enough that Anya fell silent.

Nathaniel, wearing the thin cotton padding he wore under his leather armor, stopped and immediately started backing up towards the tapestry and escape. "I beg your pardon, Anya, my lady," he apologized over the silence that fell as the women gathered their thoughts.

"No need, Nathaniel. I want you to meet the woman who raised me," Anya said, proudly. She reached out her hand in invitation and Nathaniel, looking only slightly embarrassed at being introduced while wearing very little, wrapped a hand around hers and offered a brief smile as he was introduced.

"Clare Delfensi, this is Nathaniel Howe. He is the man who holds my heart with the utmost care."

Anya smiled as Clare walked slowly around Nathaniel, appraising him with her dark eyes. "You love my little cabbage?" the woman asked bluntly, causing Anya's smile to dip into an embarrassed grimace.

"Please, Clare," she began but it was too late. From the smug look adorning Nathaniel's face, he had already heard and filed away the information. With a sigh, she turned to Nathaniel and added, "As your commander, I order you not to repeat that nickname. Or any other you might become privy to while we are here."

"Yes, Commander," he replied crisply, but she saw the humor resting in his grey eyes.

"And, as the woman you claim to love, I implore you not to remember them," she added.

"Clever move, Sister. We call that a two pronged attack," Raoul said, entering the room without knocking.

Anya threw her hands in the air. "When did privacy go out of fashion?" she teased.

Raoul's smile faded. "The moment you crossed into Orlais," he answered seriously. "Now, tell me what your agenda is and I'll see to it that you have an escort."

Rather than argue, she said curtly, "I am going to interrogate Rousel again, after which I am going to request an audience with Celene. I also need to arrange a meeting with Her Holiness, Justinia the Fifth. If these meetings prove fruitful, I will then go in search of Raimond de Luc."

"After that little stunt of his I doubt you'll find him. Grand Duke de Chalons won't have been pleased with such an overt act and will want to distance himself from it. It was very foolish and clumsy of Raimond, really. The whole affair is odd. He worshiped Father. What made him defect?"

"A question I have been pondering," Anya admitted.

"Well, don't expect Father to offer any information on the subject. He refuses to speak of it at all, at least to me. You were always able to stay in his good graces, Poppet. I never understood how you managed that."

Anya winced when she heard Nathaniel's quiet snicker. "I warned you, poulet potelé ."

"Children, there will be none of that. In fairness, Anya, your brother has not been chubby for many, many years."

Laughter warmed the room and Anya turned to Nathaniel, still chuckling. "He was as round as he was tall when he was younger, with a face full of freckles and always clucking over me, and thus the nickname poulet potelé , or chubby chicken, was born."

"I appeal to your sense of honor, Annie," her brother pleaded with a grin. "And also ask that you call on Sherise. She is so near to her confinement that she is unable to travel even so short a distance."

Anya felt a brief sting of envy, gone almost before it formed, at mention of her sister-in-law's imminent lying-in. "Of course, I will try to stop in today, if for no other reason than to see my nieces and nephews." she said, her smile reasserting itself.

"Leon is convinced you will arrive on a griffon, but Alaire disabused him of that foolishness. He is all business, that one. Of course Helaine and Annette and both planning a teaparty for their Aunt Anya, complete with new chapeaux for the occasion. Mind you, they are made of papier-mâché and bits of things they found in a sewing kit. Yours is quite fetching."

A knock interrupted Anya's reply and a blushing Carver peered around the half-opened door, his entry reminding her that she was in Val Royeaux on business. Flynne also poked his head in, a grin resting easily on his lips, and she sensed rather than saw Nathaniel slip behind the tapestry. Moments later, dressed in his Grey Warden armor, he returned by way of her door to escort her to breakfast. The others fell into step behind them.

The morning meal, complete with the traditional pot of hot chocolate and flaky croissants, was a boisterous affair as both her Warden family and her birth family became acquainted. Her mother was quiet and aloof, her eyes taking everything in and her expression cool and assessing, although she was cordial enough when spoken to. Anya glanced at her father under cover of her eyelashes. He was smiling at something Raoul and Nathaniel were discussing and he looked over at her, giving her a quick wink before returning his attention to the others.

Her parents' marriage had been, like many other noble marriages, arranged at birth. They had been no more than casual acquaintances when they'd married and, even after thirty-five years, they were still little more than that. The thought was depressing and she found herself searching for Nathaniel's hand, her own curling around it. He turned his palm up and clasped her hand, his eyes never leaving her father's face as he explained the complexities of the Imperial Court.

After breakfast, Anya composed a brief message to her cousin, asking for a formal meeting, adding that her fellow Grey Wardens would be accompanying her. Raoul offered to deliver it himself.

"I need to return to the palace and check on Sherise. And I've no wish to see that bas –"

"Raoul," her father said reprovingly as he came into the study. "You can afford to be magnanimous as an heir to both fortune and title. He has neither."

"Speaking of Rousel, it is time he and I had another chat," Anya stated crisply.

"I'll accompany you," her father intoned with just enough formality that she glanced at him. His face was impassive, carefully neutral, and for the briefest moment, she felt unease scrape at her nerves.

They went down to the dungeon underneath the palace and her father turned right, to the well-appointed cells reserved for political prisoners awaiting pardons from Empress Celene. "Rousel's fortunes seem to have risen," Anya remarked quietly, trying to keep the curiosity and censure from her voice and failing.

"A thing does not need confirmation to be true."

Her heart stuttered. Was he finally admitting that Rousel was his illegitimate son? If so, why not publicly acknowledge it? Half the aristocracy was comprised of illegitimate children. Was it to save her mother's reputation? She kept her eyes focused on the narrow hall they traversed but her unease grew from a frisson to a flare that twisted in her gut.

He stopped before a carved oak door and inserted a slender key in a lock. "Before I leave you to discuss your business with him, Poppet, I ask that you overlook his bravado and understand the burden he has been forced to carry his entire life. It will put many of his actions into the proper perspective."

"Papa, I am fighting for my life here, and the lives of my adopted country. Rousel was ready to capture me, to turn me over to Maker only knows who. I must know who he works for so that I can pursue him. Do you understand what is at stake here?"

"I am well aware of the stakes, Anya. And if your only goal is to know who it is that sent him to follow you, I can tell you that. He is an agent of the Brotherhood of the Wolf, and, as such, works for me."

Anya felt the room, her father, her entire world, recede and darken. It was as if everything she had grown up believing had just been called into question. She found she couldn't breathe, as if a hand was squeezing the air from her lungs.

"Come, Poppet, I will explain everything," he promised, his expression shuttered, but his voice conciliatory.

"Not without my Wardens," she heard herself say, only dimly aware of her words, her voice icy.

"No, this I can't permit."

"Then we have nothing more to say to each other."

Anya turned and slowly began to walk away, as conscious of her limp as she had ever been, forcing her shoulders to straighten and refusing to look behind her.

"Anya, do not do this. Listen to what I have to say before you run away."

There was anger in his voice, and something else that gave her pause. Desperation. She stopped and turned to him, masking her emotions behind the facade of a commander, a trick she had learned from him. The child who had adored her father wanted to cry out at the unfairness of life, to demand he ride his charger to her rescue, but the adult clung to her anger and refused to acknowledge the sorrow she saw lurking in his eyes. When she spoke, her voice was sheathed in ice.

"Then send someone for Nathaniel, who was the victim of Soie Noire, the preferred poison of the Wolf Brotherhood. We were in Denerim at the time, an odd place for the Wolves to be, and so I thought at the time. But who else could it have been? In fact, Father, I can think of no other group who can afford to use it. I believe Nathaniel has a right to know his lover's father was responsible for nearly killing him. Don't you agree?"

Her heart felt as if it was weighted with stones, heavy in her chest as she stared at the stranger her father had become.