Brooklynn Maier (Brook) személy

Of course she’d wanted his approval; she’d been a little girl without a mother and he was all she’d had.
Maybe if he’d spent more time with her after her mother had died, made her feel like something other than a housekeeper, she wouldn’t have found a home with Xander’s rebel army. Maybe she wouldn’t be a commander in the queen’s army now.

Brooklynn mindig is mesterien értett ahhoz, hogy rávegyen engem olyasmire, amit valójában eszem ágában sem lett volna megtenni. Amikor alig voltam idősebb, mint Angelina most, Brook rábeszélt, hogy vágjam le a hajamat, és tegyek úgy, mintha fiú lennék. Azt gondolta, hatalmas poén lesz elhitetni a többiekkel, hogy új fiú jött az osztályba.
Sajnos, a szüleim nem értékelték a humorát.

141. oldal, IX.

“You don’t know the half of whose support we have. What would you say if I told you that you’re outnumbered? That I could stop you from leaving here today if I gave the order? That me and my little insignificant band of protesters have the queen’s best friend at their mercy?” The meaning of his words was crystal clear. He would sacrifice his own daughter to send a message to the queen.
[…]
“What if I reminded you that you don’t have the queen’s best friend at your mercy, but rather the commander of the First Division of the Royal Armed Forces? What if I were to tell you that to harm me would be considered treason, and that the mere threat that just passed your vile lips could send you to stand in front of a firing squad? Or worse, get you sent to the Scablands?” She took a step toward him, closing the slim gap that remained between them, until they stood—father and daughter—nose to nose.
“You don’t have the authority,” he challenged in Parshon.
There wasn’t a trace of tolerance in her hardened expression. “Try me.”

“I was only jesting, dear daughter. You know I’d never harm you.” And suddenly he was the father who’d bragged of Brooklynn’s wood-carving skills. The same man who’d held her up on his shoulders to watch street performances and had given her sugar-covered fruits and sweets when her mother wasn’t looking. He reached out to stroke her cheek. Brook jerked away when his fingers—so cold they felt as if they belonged on a corpse—grazed her. “We’re flesh and blood, you and I,” he cooed. “If we can’t depend on each other, who can we count on?”

She was dressed entirely in black, with even the buttons fashioned from polished onyx. I’m certain her choice had nothing at all to do with how the color complemented her subtly bronzed skin, or the way her dark curls glistened against the midnight field of leather.

To me, however, she still looked like Brook.

Beautiful. And damaged.