ELEVEN
The sky is still dark when I wake to Bishop organizing his pack, and I’m immediately certain my toes are going to snap off from cold. The fire from last night is little more than a blackened ring in the dirt, wisps of smoke crawling up to nothing. Even the embers look tired.
I sit up and flex, wincing as pins and needles stab the soles of my feet. “Did you pick the coldest camping spot in Antares?”
Bishop doesn’t look over. “You’re alive, aren’t you?”
“Debatable,” I mutter, dragging myself upright. My hair actually crunches when I touch it. The air nips at any exposed skin, and I wrap the blanket around me tightly. I’d kill for a cup of something hot—even the herbal tea from home that tastes like boiled weeds and regret.
Bishop digs into his coat and pulls out an astrolabe, its brass rings faintly humming. He twists it until it silences.
“Not now.” He mutters a few curses that tell me exactly how he feels about the device and drops it into his pack. He roots around for a minute, then stands and tosses me the last bit of rabbit that we left on the fire overnight. “Eat.”
It’s practically jerky now, dry and smoky, but I’m too hungry to complain. I hate how quickly it disappears.
The postern’s lines glow faintly when Bishop picks it up and studies it. “It’s powered up just enough. We’ll need to be quick.”
“Wonderful,” I say, dread pooling in my belly as I realize there’s something I hate more than posterns. Half-powered posterns.
Bishop traces a pattern over the disc with a gloved finger. Lines glow under his touch, forming a constellation.
“What about Velesont?” I ask in a quieter voice. “Will they know if I go through this?”
“Yes, but that’s the point.” He draws another smaller pattern, and the postern flickers with soft blue light. “They’ll know exactly where you are. No other order will dare breach Vennaro. Stay put, and you’ll be safe.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
He actually considers. “Why not both?”
Safe as long as I stay where he wants me. I cross my arms to hide the tremor in my hands. “Fine. After you.”
But safety also means I’ll be able to figure out what the hell is going on.
He vanishes into the ring of blue light as soon as his boots hit the postern’s threshold.
I grit my teeth and brace for that gut-emptying cold, but this time I manage not to stumble, reaching out to rest a hand on a nearby wall.
We’ve travelled to a room. I take a single step into it, and the swirling light fades, erasing all signs of the postern save for the slightest trace of an arch.
It blends into the wall so well, I can barely tell where it is now.
The air inside is warm, the rug thick beneath my feet, and straight ahead is a hearth so massive I could walk into the fire and not touch either side.
Mismatched chairs are scattered about, some so tall they look like thrones, others squat and inviting.
A long oak table looks comfortable but regal.
Ceiling beams arch overhead like wooden ribs, and the windows are barred with iron so that only the fading twilight can get through.
The room sprawls wider than my family’s entire estate.
The horned wolf is everywhere—in the woodwork, on the banners, even carved into the mantel.
Despite the size, the room feels lived in, not imposing.
The scent of woodsmoke and the hissing of the fire are our only welcoming party.
Bishop shakes off his coat, then picks up the coin-sized disc again, and his shoulders relax. He looks around, and I catch a flicker of relief crossing his face.
He strides to the hearth and throws another log onto the fire while I stand slack-jawed.
“Is this your house?”
He shrugs. “My family’s.”
“You just … brought me to your actual house?”
First his quarters. Now this? Bishop has no boundaries.
“Is that a problem?” He lifts a brow like I should have figured this out already. “You’re safer here than anywhere else.”
“I’m surprised you trust me,” I admit.
“Trust?” He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Let’s not go that far. Should I be concerned you’re going to burn the place down?”
I glare at him, but my adrenaline is already dropping, replaced by exhaustion and something dangerously close to gratitude.
I’m in the heart of his world, and he’s the only thing standing between me and everyone who wants me dead.
It’s a terrifying kind of safety.
A woman barrels into the great room like a force of nature. She’s plump, with cheeks as round as apples and nearly as red. Her gray-streaked hair is tied back with a blue scarf, and her apron is dusted with so much flour, it looks like she wrestled a bag of it and lost.
Her eyes land on me, and her mouth forms a perfect O. She swings an accusing look at Bishop. “Oh, for the love of Stars, why didn’t you tell me you were bringing a guest?” she says, hands on hips. “I don’t have supper prepared.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “You always have enough food around for a battalion, Lenora. I didn’t think you’d mind.” He looks at me. “Lenora keeps everything from falling apart.”
“I’m just the housekeeper,” she says, rolling her eyes, but I can see she’s pleased by his flattery. She shakes a finger at him. “What’s done is done. But one of these days …”
Bishop has the sense to look sheepish.
Lenora turns to me, her appraisal quick but thorough. “You look like you’ve walked through the gates of all seven hells. Come, come, let’s get you situated. I’m sure I can scare up something to eat.”
She steers me to a chair near the hearth, grabbing a thick woolen blanket on the way. Wrapping it around my shoulders, she tucks it under my chin as if I’m a child. I let her fuss, too tired to resist.
Bishop leans against the mantel, watching the scene with a blank expression.
She whirls and points at him. “Don’t just stand there like a statue. Wash your hands and come help me fetch some food.”
He makes a faint sound—almost a groan—then pushes away from the fireplace and disappears through a side door.
Lenora’s eyes crinkle as she smiles at me. “He knows better. Sometimes he just needs a swift kick to the … well, you know. What’s your name, dear?”
I hesitate. “Arden,” I say. “Arden Icaros.”
The name hangs in the air like a lie, but Lenora only squints like she’s trying to get a better look at me. “An Icaros, huh? He’s not brought an Icaros home before. Well, welcome to Miradores. The only thing you need to worry about in this house is eating too much.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.” My stomach is already grumbling at the promise of food.
She gives my arm an approving squeeze before heading for the kitchen, singing under her breath. “Black wing, black wing, don’t beat so fast …”
The tune is familiar, like something my mother used to hum, and an ache grows in my chest.
“The night is long, the die is cast …”
Maybe all caregivers’ songs sound the same when they’re putting the world back in order.
I settle into the chair, lulled toward sleep by the soothing song. But when Bishop returns carrying a large tray, he’s not alone.