The word 'step-sister' sat in the room.
Anthierin looked at Mera. At the composed face. At the woman who had just delivered the most significant piece of personal information Anthierin had received since arriving in the capital, presented with the flat efficiency of someone who had been carrying it for a long time and had organized it into the most persuasive possible sequence.
The hammer was still in her hand.
"Prove it," Anthierin said.
Mera looked at her. At the skepticism — expected, accounted for, already prepared for. She began.
"Charlotte."
The name landed in the smithing room with the specific weight of something that belonged to Anthierin personally and that Mera should not have known. Anthierin's hand tightened on the hammer. The instinctive response of someone who has just heard something from the wrong mouth that was supposed to live in a specific private place.
