Gisbourne took my hand and pulled me up. He put my hand in his arm and escorted me back to the castle, not saying a word the whole way there. I didn’t say nothing on his loss, neither.
He brought me to their door, knocked, and let go of me only when the servant answered the door and ushered me into their chamber.
They were sitting by the fire in two chairs, and they stood up the moment the servant announced me. My eyes went to my mother first. Tall and long with hair like wheat on willows, she looked so painful like Joanna my eyes sprang with tears. I blinked it back. My father were there, his handsome face older, his strong body softer by a hair.
He came to me first, cupping my face in his hands and looking at the bruises, my hair, judging me. His eyes closed with a sigh. “Marian,” he said.
I wanted to tear away from him and run, run from his judgment and whatever he thought of my strange looks. My mother came over, covering her mouth as she started to cry. “Oh, my darling girl. I had hoped—I thought maybe, when you ran, you would learn to obey. I didn’t want—I didn’t want—” She shook her head. “My sweet!”
My father grunted. “I will speak to him, Marian. He must have patience with you, if you are to learn to be a good wife.” He rubbed my mother’s back. “Dear, it’s all right. Come, there is much more to talk about.”
My father reached forward, taking my good hand like he’d done when I was a little girl. He patted it and brought me over to the fireplace, letting me sit in the chair while he sat on the hearth before me. “There is much to hear, Marian.”
I nodded slow, my mouth dry like week-old bread. “I-I know,” I said.
“Where have you been?” my mother wailed. “Why didn’t you write? Didn’t you ever think—” She started crying again.
My father ignored her. “Start at the beginning,” he said. “Why did you leave us? Was it Joanna’s idea?”
“It was my idea,” I admitted, shame making my words slow but proper. “Neither one of us wanted to marry, but she would have done as you asked. When I said I wanted to run away, she wouldn’t let me go alone.”
My mother bent. “She has always loved you so very much,” she moaned.
“Where did you go?” my father asked. “How on earth did you manage, two girls on your own?”
“We went to London. Joanna took some coin she had saved, and we used that at first.”
“Who took you in London?” my father demanded, his face folding into a scowl. “What blackguard sheltered you and didn’t tell me of it?”
“We rented a room,” I told him, my voice tiny.
“A room?” my mother repeated.
“Like a—” My father didn’t dare finish the sentence.
“We managed,” I said quick, trying to keep my mind from wheeling into those days. “We managed.”
“How did you manage?” he snapped. “Did you sell yourselves? Is that what my daughters have become? Scarlet women?”
I flushed at the name. “We stole,” I said. I would never tell them what Joanna did at night to manage. I would never tell no one that.
He jumped to his feet. “Stole! Like criminals!”
My mother’s wail distracted him, and he stood by her, rubbing her back.
“I was an exceptional thief,” I told him, squaring my shoulders. “So good that Robin Hood asked me to join his band. And I’ve been doing that ever since. Helping people. Saving people.”
“There is nothing exceptional about a woman of noble birth embracing a criminal life,” he told me. “Nothing! And just how long have you been here? How long have you lived half a day’s ride from us and we never knew?”
“Years,” I breathed.
“Years!” he roared, stepping forward. My mother looked up, though, and caught his arm.
“Wait. When can we see Joanna?” she asked. “She’s here, isn’t she? We thought she’d come with you.”
I stood from the chair, needing to feel my knife, needing to be able to move if my father lunged for me. “No,” I said soft.
“So she married after all,” my father said. “Where? In London?”
“No,” I said, and my face twisted, my eyes filling.
“Where is she?” my father demanded.
“She died,” I whispered. I felt like crying but the tears didn’t come. I had cried so much for Joanna; it didn’t seem right to cry now when it were their turn to mourn her. I turned and looked at my parents, shamed. “In London. Three years ago.”
My father roared and came toward me, but I ducked away from him as my mother wailed in pain. “Where is she!” my father bellowed.
“My girl—” my mother cried, sobs stabbing in the middle of her words. “My only—girl is—dead—”
“What?” I asked, but I weren’t sure if I even really said it over their hollering. My father continued to rant at me, yelling and coming after me, making me shift round the room. “Mother! What did you just say?” I demanded.
“You killed our daughter!” my father screamed. “You killed our daughter! You took everything we ever had and never gave a damn about us! We never would have taken you in if we knew you would kill Joanna!”