NINE
The grounds are busier than usual this morning. Flags are still lowered to half-mast, like they’ve been for three days now.
Three days that I’ve counted with the rise and fall of the sun, ever since Bishop dumped me in his room after the council meeting and vanished. Vessica is the only one who’s bothered to come, but only to deliver meals with little more than a grunt to acknowledge my existence.
Fine by me. After my last words to Broderic, I’m not in the mood for conversation.
The springs squeak as I push off the bed and walk over to stare out the window.
Gray clouds hover as if the heavens also know it’s time for the funeral. I keep far enough from the sill that no one spots me watching the constant stream of deliveries. Only the damn oscen continues to show up to perch on the battlement. It’s the only one that seems to care that I’m here.
The things I said that night to Broderic play on a loop in my head. I can’t escape them any more than I can escape the palace.
Coaches begin to arrive midday, hauling the city’s wealthy either for show or from overly delicate refinement. Because who can be bothered to walk the few steps up the royal drive and risk ruining their shoes in the snow?
A knock startles me from my thoughts. I glance at the clock on the desk, one of the few amenities my new room has to offer. I’ve already eaten breakfast, and supper is hours away. No one has bothered to acknowledge my existence for any other reason.
The change in schedule is enough to make me pause at the door before opening it. At least a murder attempt would break up the monotony.
Vessica is on the other side. She holds out a fresh set of clothing. “These are for you.”
It’s the first time she’s spoken to me since the king died, and her expression says she’s not enthused to be breaking her silence.
I flap open the shirt, and a pair of fitted breeches tumbles to the floor.
I expected another dress. The black shirt I’m holding has a high neck with a tightly fitted bodice.
The material is expensive—soft and thick—but practical, with the subtle silver embroidery that marks it as military-grade.
It will be by far the most comfortable thing I have worn since I arrived in Wintour. “What are these for?”
“To wear.” Vessica gives me a bored blink, her dark-brown eyes betraying nothing as she passes me a pair of boots. That’s a definite upgrade from the oversized ones Bishop gave me. Maybe this is her version of an olive branch.
“Look, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” I begin, but she’s already walked back out the door.
Okay, maybe not.
No one knows what to do with me. Maybe they’re just hoping I will start developing Ravenell’s powers and give them a reason to lop off my head.
Yeah, things are getting dark.
Perhaps because I can’t stop remembering the looks on the patrons’ faces in the council room. I haven’t felt even a hint of magic since the Kindling, but too many people already see me as a threat.
I lean over to scoop the pants off the floor before dropping the new items on the bed.
Stripping down, I change, eager to be out of a skirt for the first time in almost a week.
Particularly since this week feels like a lifetime.
I’ve just fastened the last buckle of the boots—which are stiffer than the ones I purchased in Damalis—when the door swings open.
Bishop strides in wearing his usual scowl.
He’s not in uniform today apart from a single sheathed sword.
There’s no sign of his signature red cloak, and the woolen black coat buttoned tightly at the neck is devoid of any insignia.
Its hem extends to his knees, giving him plenty of room to hide weapons and stolen books and whatever else he usually conceals under his cloak.
“Don’t you knock?” I spring up from the bed, pleased to find the boots are unexpectedly comfortable despite their newness. “I could’ve been naked.”
“But you weren’t,” he says like this settles the matter.
“If you’re going to keep me locked up in here, maybe it’s time we get a few things straight.” I’ve been rehearsing this speech, just waiting for a moment to deliver it.
But Bishop waves me off. “It’s your lucky day. You’re finally getting out of here, so why don’t we skip the lecture?”
“Getting out?” I repeat, heart stuttering. “Why now?”
“Things have changed,” he says, adjusting his gloves.
Ice slides down my spine, freezing my muscles in place. “Changed in a good way?”
His silence is answer enough. I’m fucked.
I take a deep breath. “Where am I going?”
“I’m sure you’ve noticed there’s a funeral this afternoon.” Bishop glances toward the window.
My stomach bottoms out so fast, I feel dizzy. He can’t be serious. I take a slow step backward, shaking my head. The black shirt with its high neck to cover the mark of Ravenell—the bastard wants me to go to the king’s funeral. “You can’t expect me to go …”
“To the funeral?” He raises his eyebrows. “Everyone else expects you to be there. You are a noble-born daughter of a patron line.”
“That’s a terrible idea.” I continue to shake my head like it’s come loose. “It will be a spectacle.”
It will draw attention not just to me but to my family as well. Broderic may not have come to visit, but I have no doubt he’s still in the city. He’ll attend the funeral out of duty despite the humiliation I’ve caused our family. He’s too proud to do anything else.
“I’d rather stay locked up.” Please and thank you very much.
“Too bad. As I said, things have changed.” He flourishes an arm toward the door. “After you.”
He’s actually making me do this. Maybe Bishop does want me dead.
I shuffle toward the hallway, grumbling under my breath, “Are you going to follow me around for the rest of my life?”
“Your life will be a lot longer if I do.”
My guts twist as we descend the staircase, my anxiety building with each step. Maybe that’s what the outfit is about. It’s hardly a fashion statement. I’ll blend in. Perhaps people will mistake me for one of his conscripts. But what changed that Bishop needs to drag me to the king’s funeral?
We reach the landing for the main floor, and the sconces on the wall gutter, winking out like the stars did that night.
I freeze as if it’s an omen, but Bishop gestures to keep heading down.
I glance toward the sounds of muffled chatter. “Where are we going? Isn’t the funeral up here?”
“It’s not for another hour,” he explains. “But if you want to go and make small talk with the early arrivals, be my guest.”
“I do not,” I say quickly.
He nods like he agrees with my position on the matter. “Then follow me.”
We descend into the bowels of the castle, which are teeming with staff and servants rushing about and making the final preparations for whatever lavish luncheon is to follow the burial.
Bishop carves a path through the chaos with the ease of someone who knows his way through every passage in the palace.
A few people pause and curtsy when they see him.
Most immediately shift direction, not daring to get in his way.
They’re so focused on my brooding guardian that they don’t notice me, and my nerves ease a little.
Unlike the upper floors, the spaces below are utilitarian, connected by a labyrinth of cramped corridors and low doorways.
The air carries the sound of clattering dishes and the smells of roasting meats and baking breads.
Bishop opens a back entrance and leads me into a small courtyard.
It’s not the extravagant one viewable from my window or the snow-covered gardens beyond that.
Waste bins line the squat brick walls enclosing the space; crates of empty wine bottles are stacked next to the refuse.
Bishop continues through, heading for the stable complex.
“Wait.” I stop in my tracks, tugging on his arm. “Seriously. Where are we going?”
“Keep asking,” he says dryly and continues walking. “It’s endearing.”
I refuse to move and toss at his back, “I thought we were going to the funeral.”
Bishop doesn’t break his stride. “You said that was a terrible idea.”
“Yes, but you didn’t agree with me.” I rush forward when it becomes clear that he’s not going to stop.
“Oh, I agree with you.” He heads into a carriage house. “Like I said, everyone will be at the funeral.”
Before I can ask him what the hell is going on, there’s a laugh from somewhere deeper in the building, followed by distant footsteps.
“What a way to start a war,” a male voice sneers.
My heart jumps into my throat, but Bishop is already backing closer, his arm extended protectively in front of me.
Another voice answers, “I’m just glad it’s no one important. No one will miss an Icaros.”
“Don’t you mean a Ravenell?” The following laugh sounds closer. So do the footsteps. “I just hope the queen is more ambitious than her brother.”
“Doubtful, or she’d have been the one to hire us.”
A slight gasp escapes me, and a second later, Bishop has me pinned against the wall before I can draw another breath, one palm covering my mouth, the other braced beside my head. There’s nowhere for me to go.
“Don’t say a word,” he breathes.
Leaning closer, he angles his face over mine, his silver-blond hair falling like a curtain to shield me.
The conversation continues, but I’m no longer listening.
Bishop slides his hand from my mouth to the back of my neck, settling there like he’s anchoring me.
Holding me exactly where he wants me. Even in the carriage house’s dim light, the silver rimming his blue eyes sparkles as his gaze dips to my mouth, the intention there unmistakable.
He smells like leather and smoke and the faint hint of soap from his morning bath.
I close my eyes, half in dread, half in anticipation.
His forehead grazes mine, breath warm against my lips, our bodies almost touching. He stays there, never letting his mouth move closer.