Lysandra hurried along the street, an arm wrapped protectively around Evangeline, eyes scanning every shadow, every passer-by.
She was always on edge on this street.
Usually, she avoided it as much as possible, but today she was late.
She had an appointment for Evangeline at the Seamstress's shop, a new dress as a birthday treat, but the street they usually took was closed off.
The series of assassinations that had occurred throughout the kingdom since the appointment of Celaena as the king's Champion had returned to Rifthold.
Of course, not everyone connected the assassinations to the King's Champion. Not everyone even knew they were assassinations. The victims simply disappeared. Vanished in the night with no trace. But Lysandra knew her killing style. Or lack of it.
She knew Celaena. Quick, efficient kills, taking only enough proof of the kill to get her credit. In this case, the heads and signet rings. But she rarely followed a style. Too traceable.
So here she was, rushing through the street where she had once lived.
And there, on her old house, was something that made her pause, despite herself.
A black banner.
A marker of the dead. Symbol of grief.
But only one person lived there. Only one person ever had.
Her Mother was dead.
Evangeline looked up at her stricken face, confused.
"Lysandra?"
"Lysandra, are you alright?"
Lysandra stared at the banner.
"I'm fine, Ev."
And she was. She should be.
What had that woman ever done for her? She barely knew her.
She should be pleased.
And yet…
She tried to force her legs to move, to continue on their way.
We are going to be late, she told herself, what does it matter that a stranger has died?
But it did matter. Somehow, it did.
Because she could never truly be a stranger. Not to her Mother. No matter their past, some part of Lysandra wanted to be sad.
Her own flesh and blood.
A woman who had shunned Lysandra, regardless of their relation. So why was it so hard to return the favour?
She hardly noticed the stranger approaching.
Evangeline squeezed her hand a little tighter, anchoring her to a sense of reality, however blurred.
The man wore simple clothes of good quality, but they were dirty, stained and dusty as though he had been travelling.
His short, brown hair was unkempt, and his shoulders were slumped. A dejected man. A man disappointed. A tiny worm of frustration writhed in his dark eyes, but his other features showed no trace of it.
He looked to be nearly fifty years old, and yet he moved like someone unused to the restrictions of his body.
He stopped in front of her, nodding back towards the house.
"Did you know her?"
She should have lied, had always lied, but in the shock of the moment, she just nodded numbly.
"You- you didn't know she was ill?"
She shook her head.
He looked a little uncomfortable at that, but offered her a sad, sympathetic smile.
"I myself have only known her for a few days. I came seeking answers, but she revealed none before her passing."
Ah. That explained the disappointment, the frustration, mixed with his sadness.
She should go, should get to the seamstress and never look back, but she asked, "And what answers did you seek?"
"A girl. I was looking for a girl. Allison had a daughter, you see. I needed to find her." He looked up hopefully, "Did you know she had a daughter?"
"I- yes, I once lived around here." Truth, truth, but not the whole truth. The best kind of lie.
The hope that blossomed on his face disturbed her. Why did he want to find her? Did he know she had magic? Was he hunting her for that?
"And you know what happened to her?"
No, this had gone too far.
She pulled her features into a mask of apologetic sympathy.
"No. Sorry, but I'm afraid I don't."
She turned, gripping Evangeline's hand tightly, and strode off down the street without waiting for a response. And she didn't look back.
A/N : Guess who that was!