From Book Four. Tally-ho!
About a week into their journey they stopped at a low outcropping of rocks to make camp for the night. As was their routine, Helena was led off the wagon to a place farther from where the rest of them camped—within sight, but out of earshot if they kept their voices low. There she was secured somehow—tied to a tree, or to a stake pounded into the ground. Tonight it was a stake.
Helena’s silent and willing acquiescence to this routine was as disturbing to Aydan as ever. There was no defeat in her posture—no slumped shoulders, no softness in the lines of her mouth. Her back was as straight as a dancer’s, her shoulders squared and set, her lips pressed into a firm line. Even so, there was never any sign of a desire to escape. It didn’t make sense, and Aydan didn’t like it.
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As always, loads of love,