“You’re asking me to spend money on that fool?” Forest snarled, slamming a palm on the table.
Ian Cline braced both hands on the carved wood and did not look at his son. “We decide here, Forest. Not by shouting.”
“Shouting?” Forest barked. “You call wasting coin on another branch not shouting? That girl has no dowry, no trade. She’s not our concern.”
Grant stood up so fast his stool tipped. “She is my daughter. You want her to die so you can buy lacquer for your courtyard?”
“Grant,” Ian said. His voice was small until it filled the hall. “We are a household. Every mouth eats what the house provides. If the house splits, names vanish. You want to force a split?”
Valerie Chaney laughed, low and hard. “Split the house, Old Man? Then take your lacquer and your heir and go sleep in your fancy yard. We’ll take what we need.”
Tilda clutched the hem of her sleeve. Janessa Carlson, the child who watched everything like a hawk, folded her hands and smiled like a trap.
“I won’t—” Ian started, then stopped. His face flushed. “You would take from me?”
Valerie’s hands were steady on the table. “I will take what is fair. I will not hand the middle son and his child to hunger and shame so your favorite can pretend he deserves respect.”
Forest shoved his chair back. “You speak to me like a beggar.”
“You beg for power every week
