I did feel guilty about what I was doing.
Arthur had made it clear that he planned to spend significant time at home over the coming months—a deliberate effort to make up for the worry he'd caused us during his extended absences. First, there had been those eleven months when he'd vanished to the Northern border without warning, leaving us to wonder if he was alive or dead.
Then came his involvement in the Eastern continent's war, another period of sleepless nights and unanswered questions for our family.
So my sudden enthusiasm for social activities, my increased requests to spend time with friends from Slatemark Academy, was directly undermining his intentions. I knew this, and yet I couldn't bring myself to stop.
The alternative—sitting at home while he unconsciously demonstrated his superiority in every casual conversation—felt infinitely worse.
