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CAHIRA

The man turns and smiles. “And what other role would you suggest? I’m a good actor, you know.”

I freeze. What? This wasn’t- what was this?

I clear my throat and glare at him. “I, Cahira Beckwith, daughter of Lord Nial Beckwith, would suggest that you take upon yourself the role of a groveling servant whose desire is to avoid imprisonment and possible death.”

“Ah,” he grins. “It’s been a while since I’ve played that role. I apologize if my act is a little rusty.” Immediately he twists his face into a pitiful expression of fear.

I stare at him flabbergasted. “Do you want to die?” I hiss. “I. Am. Cahira. Beckwith.”

“You can call me Kit, and, no, I have no desire to die.”

I draw myself to my full height, which, frustratingly, is a few inches shorter than him. “Be warned, Kit, I will report you, and then you will see the power behind my name of which you seem to fail to recognize. I swear that before the next sunrise, you will be imprisoned and never to see the light of the sun again,” I growl.

“Um, I don’t think you’re a little confused.”

I snort. “There is nothing to be confused about. My father is Lord Beckwith, who, last I checked, is the one who is truly in charge. And he does not take kindly to pink-haired men mocking his daughter.”

@calidris