Page 39 of Waking Roslyn

I wasn’t sure I should respond, but she remained stubbornly silent, so I pulled my words together. “I was not here when Damian was alive.” It felt strange calling him Damian, but when talking about both the Rockwell brothers, I didn’t want to fuss with Lord Rockwell and Lord Rockwell. “But I saw the pain he left behind. I believe Damian was a more…extreme version of Edmund.”

“You don’t like Edmund.” It was a statement, so I didn’t bother denying it.

What could I say about my employer? I supposed I could only speak the truth. “Lord Rockwell warned me away from you yesterday.”

Her instant glare almost made me smile. “Edmund has no authority over me.”

“You do live in his household.”

“At his wife’s invitation. I could leave at any time. And I don’t want him pretending that he can decide who I do and do not associate with.”

Fascinating. I’d had to goad her into defending herself physically, but she didn’t hesitate to stand up for herself with words. “Well, he might not have any authority over you, but he has plenty over me.”

Her eyes saddened. “Do you hate that?”

Her sincerity and immediate understanding made my throat tight. “More than you can possibly imagine.”

“Is it normal for servants to dislike their employer, or is Edmund just a particularly difficult person in all circumstances?”

I let out a sigh. “In general, he’s not a bad employer. Probably better than most. But he and I…”

Her brow shot up. “Yes?” Her face was filled with curiosity.

My lower back tensed, and I rolled my torso, trying to stretch it.

“You’re holding a story there.” Her gaze was a little too knowing.

“What?”

“The way you moved just now,” she said, pointing to my back. “Something is hurting you.”

It seemed an obvious observation, but her concern was sweet. “Just some tension.”

“It’s a story that needs to be told, buried in your muscles,” she said as if it were obvious.

What an odd thing to say. My brow pulled together as I looked at her. “You think there’s a story in my back?”

She nodded. “We’re full of stories. And painful stories that we hold on to will cause physical pain.”

“That’s…” I didn’t know what I thought of the idea. Didn’t we keep our stories in our heads and our hearts? What did my back have to do with anything?

She looked away. “Sorry. It’s just something my mother always talked about.”

I didn’t want to dismiss the idea, though it did seem a bit odd.

“What happened between you and Edmund?” she asked, returning to our original topic.

I looked down at my boots, wondering how much to say and how to say it. I decided to just jump into the crux of the problem. “He reminds me of my father.”

The way her face transformed made it clear that I had greatly surprised her. “Your father?”

I nodded.

“What about him?”

“My father was…tumultuous.”

“Oh…”