SIXTEEN
“Twelvetide is almost here,” Lenora announces one rare sunny morning.
Her greeting is an unwelcome reminder that time keeps moving here whether I want it to or not. Especially since each morning brings the possibility that I’ll wake up with Ravenell magic burning in my veins.
“So?” I finish lacing my collar and turn to find her holding a tray laden with pastries and fresh coffee. Clearly it’s a bribe, although I don’t know what she wants from me. Twelvetide is still six weeks away.
Over the last several days, she’s chased me from the kitchen, fussed over my choice to wear pants instead of dresses, and refused to allow me to help with even the simplest task—only to show up with food at every opportunity.
I can’t decide if she’s pleased to have a guest with Bishop away on business so often, or if I’m one more chore added to her list.
She places the tray on a small table by the hearth and pours a cup of coffee. “Bishop always hosts a party for his family and the conscripts.” She passes me the mug, adding, “It’s a tradition.”
Suspicion seeps into my chest, but I accept the bait. “I’m not a conscript.”
“No, you are the guest of honor.”
I stare at her, waiting for the punch line.
She doesn’t blink.
Guest of honor? This has to be her idea.
I set the cup down so quickly that coffee sloshes onto the saucer. “I doubt Bishop wants me there.”
His lengthy absence suggests as much. Although each day he’s away in the royal city renews hope that he’s close to catching the king’s killer, which might clear my name enough to prevent further assassination attempts.
A girl can dream.
But even if he does, I’ll still have the mark of Ravenell on my chest. Bishop told me I might be able to find answers here. But despite his claim, he hasn’t volunteered the forbidden book he took from the shop in Wintour—and I’ve been too chickenshit to call him on it.
I’d asked Lenora for books, afraid to trespass in Bishop’s obviously sacred library, but she’d brought mostly boring military histories about the Last War.
Nothing about Order Ravenell. Not exactly a surprise.
Those books and the dangerous magic in them were destroyed by the first king five hundred years ago.
She only blinked when I asked her to check for a book about scions, like she’d never heard of them.
The lack of answers, of anything solid to grab on to, has left me restless, especially because I don’t even know where to start looking.
Still, the last thing I want is to go to a party. My shoulders droop along with my mood. Twelvetide is meant to be spent with family.
But Lenora waves off my concern with a flick of her hand. “You’ll need a gown,” she says, completely ignoring my sputter of indignation. “More than one, honestly.”
“I don’t need—” I start to protest.
“You can’t wear borrowed clothing all the time,” she cuts in. “You need your own wardrobe, starting with a gown for the holiday.”
“I’m not sure I’ll even be here,” I mutter, but she’s not listening as she smears butter on an additional bribe.
“Wolf’s Keep has a dozen forges but only one seamstress.” She thrusts the biscuit into my hands. “She’s very good, but she’ll get busy soon. Even soldiers dress up for the holidays.”
That’s not a pointed statement at all.
But the thought of visiting a village where everyone is armed to the teeth is not my idea of a great morning. I slouch against the wall. “Can’t I just wear one of the old uniforms? They’re growing on me.”
Lenora actually laughs. “That’s Bishop’s solution to every problem—put on black and call it a day. You two are quite the pair.”
“We’re not … I mean …” I trip over my own tongue. “There’s no two. No pair.”
The man can barely stand to be in the same house as me, if his constant travel is any indication.
“Of course not.” She inclines her head, but her eyes sparkle. “That doesn’t change the fact that you need your own things.”
I glance down at my scrounged-up wardrobe. Nothing I’m wearing belongs to me. I’m living in borrowed spaces in borrowed clothes on borrowed time. The only thing that’s mine is the mark burned over my heart.
I wrap my arms around myself. “The last party I attended might as well have been my funeral.”
Lenora softens. It’s the first time I’ve mentioned the night of the Petition, though I’m sure she’s heard about it from others.
“But it wasn’t, love.” She reaches over, smoothing my hair back.
I wonder if she did that when Bishop was little—if he ever let her.
But before her gentle touch can win me over, she’s back to business.
“Finish up. Vessica’s waiting in the kitchen.
You two can stop at the post to see if you’ve had any letters. ”
Just like that, the conversation is over. Maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe Lenora is the one who taught Bishop how to give orders.
But she pauses in front of the window and gasps. “It can’t be.”
“What is it?” I jump to my feet. As soon as I look out to the garden, my knees nearly buckle when I spot the oscen roosting on the branch of an overgrown willow.
Lenora taps the glass, but the bird doesn’t budge. “I haven’t seen one since I was a girl.” She leans forward to get a better look. “How auspicious.”
“Auspicious?” I repeat, still staring at it, my heart sinking inch by inch. “An omen, you mean.”
She lifts her shoulders, shaking her head slightly. “Life is always sending us signs. We decide if they’re good or bad ones.”
I nod, only half listening. Lenora hums that melody I can’t place under her breath as she leaves the room, but I never look away from the bird.
I’m pretty sure the escaped pet of a dead king is following me—and there’s only one way to interpret that.
I continue to the kitchen with a half-eaten biscuit and a growing sense of dread.
Polishing it off in a few bites, I still don’t feel better. It’s hard to decide what’s worse—attending this upcoming party, actually getting a letter from back home, or the prospect of spending the day with Vessica, who always looks like she’s deciding which of my bones to snap first.
She’s already waiting by the kitchen fire, her mouth set in a grim line. “Ready?” she asks. “The sooner we go, the sooner we’re done.”
“What if we told Lenora no?” I suggest in a whisper, afraid she will overhear. She can’t be far. I don’t need a dress, and I doubt there’s a letter waiting already.
Vessica huffs as she snatches a scone from the prep table. “Never bite the hand that feeds you.”
It’s a testament to Lenora’s domestic authority that even Vessica doesn’t dare upset her.
Before I can concoct another plan to get out of this, Lenora swoops in with a coat and a pair of gloves.
“You two will take the postern. I know Wolf’s Keep is only a few miles away, but it’s faster, and I don’t want you walking all the way there in this cold.
Besides, yesterday someone tracked half the mud in Vennaro into the house with them. ”
I’m suddenly very invested in my buttons. I hadn’t noticed my boots were muddy yesterday afternoon when I went out for a walk. Then again, apart from soldiers, mud is Vennaro’s primary commodity.
But Vessica blinks at the lecture. “Of course we will,” she says slowly, like she’s not certain why this is a discussion. “You know I hate wasting time.”
I bet the ice queen feels right at home traveling by postern.
“Use the one by the gate. It’s closer than the bridge,” Lenora says, herding us toward the back door.
Vessica strides through it without so much as a goodbye to Lenora, who’s too busy fussing with my coat collar to notice.
“Stay with her.” Lenora studies me for a moment before sighing. “And try to enjoy yourself. Just not too much.”
I don’t think there’s any danger of that, especially given my companion. I glance outside to Vessica. “She’s not exactly the outgoing type, is she?”
“Nope. But she’ll keep you safe. Bishop trusts her, and so do I.” Lenora grins and pushes me out the door.
A blast of wind nearly knocks me down as I step outside.
The temperature must have dropped ten degrees overnight.
It’s as if even the weather is eager for the upcoming holiday and putting on its wintery best in anticipation.
I don’t care about dresses or parties, but at least visiting Wolf’s Keep will give me a chance to get out of the house and see some of the world.
The garden path is slick with dew and scattered leaves. Glancing back, I see Lenora watching from the door, arms folded, like she’s not sure we’ll come back in one piece.
“Let’s get this over with,” Vessica says, muttering a few choice words about the cold as she pulls her long wool coat tighter, and we start toward the back gate.
The postern is tucked behind a stand of half-withered evergreens currently under invasion by brambles. Only the top of the arch—etched with nochtimetric sigils—is visible through the overgrowth.
“Why couldn’t we use the one inside the house?” I ask when I see its condition.
Vessica frowns, draws her sword, and hacks some of the tangled mess away. “This is the closest postern.”
I should keep my mouth shut, but my jaw is practically a broken hinge. “Bishop and I entered directly into the great room the day we arrived.”
She pauses, her sword hovering in the air for a moment like she might turn it on me. I take a step away, remembering what Taliesin said about her stabbing him in the back.
“Not every postern is … approved,” she says carefully.
“Bishop mentioned that when we used his portable one. I don’t see why being unlicensed stops us from using the one in the house.”
“Of course he told you,” she says under her breath, as if she thinks he should have kept this a secret. “Only Bishop can use his family posterns. Just like only your family can use Icaros ones.”
“There are no Icaros posterns.”
“Hmph” is her only response.
“What does that mean?” If my family had a personal postern at our disposal, I’d know. On the rare occasions that we use one at all, we use the one near the post like everyone else.
But she’s silent as she sheathes her sword.