About twenty years ago
“Look,” said Chalia Vance, “just come and meet him. He’s your father. He’ll want to know you exist.”
Kett, who had spent most of her sixteen years with people who wished she didn’t exist, didn’t believe this for a second.
“If he wanted to know whether I existed or not,” she said, “he should have thought about it before he tumbled my mother.”
Chalia rolled her eyes. “Thinking ahead isn’t really his strong suit. I know he can be a bit of an arse. Nevertheless, he is your father. You…belong to each other. You even have his eyes,” she added, peering at Kett’s silvery irises.
“Well, then he can have ’em back,” Kett scowled.
“Just come and say hello,” said Chalia. “You don’t even need to tell him who you are.”
I’m his daughter. According to the faery stories, that should be enough to make him love her. But Kett had seen enough carelessness, enough casual cruelty, enough deliberate meanness in her life so far to know this wasn’t the case.
And yet…
Maybe he will love you, said a pernicious little voice in the back of her mind.
She shrugged her shoulders and said carelessly to the older woman, “Okay, whatever.”
Chalia’s face lit up and she grabbed Kett’s hand, towing her forward. They approached the door of one of the palace’s many salons, and heard the voice of a man talking into his scryer.
“That’s him! That’s your father,” Chalia said, clutching Kett’s hand excitedly.
“Whoop-di-fucking-do,” said Kett with all the ennui she could muster. But inside, hope was beating an excited tattoo on her heart.
“Striker said he would call and tell him you were coming,” Chalia whispered. “We’ll just wait until they’ve…”
But her voice faded out as Kett tuned her keen hearing to the conversation. She recognized Striker’s voice filtered through the tinny quality of the scryer, which must mean her father was on the other side of the door. Her actual father.
“…don’t lay any claim to her, Striker.”
“Yeah, but-”
“Look,” said her father. “When women think I’m a highwayman or a mercenary or a fucking army deserter or whatever, all they want’s a quick tumble, and that’s fine by me, because you know what? As soon as they find out my daddy’s an earl and I’m actually the Honorable Tyrnan of Emreland, they suddenly discover all these poor relations who need sponsoring and you’d be amazed at how many of them suddenly come up with kids who just have to be mine. I’ve heard it all before, Striker. If a quarter of those women were telling the truth, I’d be setting some sort of paternal record. The kid is no more my daughter than you are.”
“Believe me, mate, she’s your kid,” said the tinny voice. “I’ve met her. She’s just like you.”
Tyrnan of Emreland laughed. “Then gods help her,” he said.
She felt it like a punch in the stomach. Stupid, stupid girl for letting yourself believe anything else, she berated silently. You learned it years ago; no one cares about you. Try to remember it in future.
Kett turned to the silent woman beside her. Chalia’s pretty face looked fixed and uncomfortable, but she attempted a smile.
“I’m sure-” she began, but Kett cut her off with a sneer that came far too easily.
“He’ll want to know I exist, huh?” she asked, and walked away, her footsteps getting faster as the tears began to flow.