Mara was like Eduarde Redlyon—that was the trouble. Dafythe had known it from his daughter’s squalling infancy. “How like her grandfather she is!” He’d heard the words too often. “His very image! See how she holds her tin sword! See how she sits her pony. She has his skill! His courage! Brave child, she does not cry out even when she falls and scrapes her knees! What a warrior she will be!” Eloquence was predicted in every childish lisp, bravery in each toddling step.
Like her grandfather, Mara was short-tempered. She could get …read more