" I sat where I was and waged a short fierce inner battle. Either I could sit and sulk--in which case they would want to know why--or I could go out there, pretend nothing was amiss, and do what needed doing.
The table in the Marquis’s room was set for the three of us. I sniffed the air, which was pleasant with the summer-grass smell of brewing listerblossom. Somehow this eased my sore spirits just a little. I knelt down next to my brother, whose bed pillows cushioned him, and poured myself some of the tea. It felt good on my raw throat.
For a time I just sat there with my eyes closed, sipping occasionally, while the other two continued a conversation about the difficulties of supply procurement that they had obviously begun before I returned. At first I listened to the voices: Bran’s husky, slow, with laughter in it as a constant and pleasant undercurrent, and Shevraeth’s soft, emotionless, with words drawn out in a court drawl to give them emphasis, rather than using changes in tone or timbre. The complexity of Shevraeth’s reaction was thus masked, which--I realized--was more irritating to me than his voice, which didn’t precisely grate on the ears. It was an advantage that I had no access to; I seemed to be incapable of hiding my reactions.
The tea restored to me enough presence of mind to bring the sense of their words, instead of mere sound. They were still discoursing on supply sources and how to protect supply lines, and Bran kept looking to me for corroboration, for in truth, I knew more about this than he did. Then I realized that it was an unexceptionable subject introduced so that I might take part; but I saw in that a gesture of pity, and my black mood threatened to descend again. "

― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)