SEVENTEEN
Arden,
Thank you for letting us know you arrived.
Your family is safe.
—Kieren
Two lines. Four if you count the pleasantries of writing out our names.
No “I miss you.” No “come home.” Not even a “don’t die.”
My body crumples onto the bed, the springs creaking under a weight suddenly too heavy to carry. I don’t know what I’d hoped to hear, but nothing wasn’t on the list.
Tears blur my vision, and I drag my forearm across my eyes before they can make it to my cheeks. Like that might erase the sting before it settles any deeper. I hadn’t expected Broderic to reply. He’s too stubborn. But Kieren?
We’ve spent nearly our whole lives together. We have our own language of shared looks and inside jokes. And now it’s reduced to two lines that feel as shallow and distant as strangers nodding to each other on the road.
I read it again. And again. Each time hoping the words might shift, soften, reveal something I missed the first dozen times through. They don’t. They just sit there, indifferent to the fresh wound they’ve carved into me.
I fold the note carefully this time, smoothing the crease with my thumb, like gentleness might coax something kinder from the message. I drop it on the bed next to the package, the contents of which are somehow even worse.
An old pair of shoes, a few worn shirts, my comb. A collection of things from a life that’s no longer mine. Thrown into a box. Whoever packed it didn’t even take the time to fold the clothes.
Lying back, I stare at the ceiling and let my feelings settle from numb to something else entirely. Not sadness. Not even anger. It’s the heavy, increasingly familiar ache of being dispensable.
I stay that way for a long time—until the light fades and shadows lengthen. Until I’m sure Lenora isn’t going to hunt me down and force me to the table for dinner. Until I convince myself that there’s no piece of my heart left to break.
Tucking the letter in my pocket, I go down to find something I can eat that will help put me back together.
It’s fine. It’s all fine. I don’t need anyone.
But I can’t shake the urge to burn the box and its depressing contents in the fireplace, just to see if that leaves a mark, too.
The great room’s chairs are empty, and the kitchen is deserted.
There’s a plate of food waiting on the prep table, but, for once, I’m not hungry.
Probably because the letter in my pocket feels like a splinter under my skin.
The kind that only burrows deeper when you try to deal with it.
I guess some pain even food can’t soothe.
So, I find the wine instead.
Prying out the cork, I pour wine into a chipped mug and drink it in one go. It burns all the way down, but the taste is dark and rich, almost sweet. I pour a second glass, then take the whole bottle and wander back into the hall.
I’ve just finished my second cup when I hear Lenora singing. “Run, gray wolf, the stars are falling …”
Her sad tune grows louder as she moves through the great room. “Oh lovers weep, war is calling.”
The song isn’t exactly a pick-me-up. But it’s the possibility of a lecture, even a well-intended one, that sends me ducking into a small parlor near the front door. A room I’ve never been in nor seen another soul enter. Lenora’s voice fades in the opposite direction, but I linger in my new hideout.
The furniture is formal, all gilded wood and ornate silk upholstery.
Nothing about it seems to fit with the rest of the estate, especially the polished black piano that looms like a phantom in one corner.
But there’s not a speck of dust to be found—the only proof that anyone’s been here in years.
I take up residence on a built-in bench under the bay window, safely tucked out of sight thanks to the heavy curtains hanging on either side.
It’s the perfect place to hide from the world.
I curl up on the cushion, knees to my chest, and sip the wine.
Slowly at first, then faster. Eventually, I stop bothering to pour it into the mug and drink directly from the bottle, watching raindrops race down the windowpane’s warped glass until the world outside is painted in deep blues and blacks.
Overhead, the Night’s Scar is empty save for one bright dot.
I sink back, nestling into the cushions like the new star will see me.
I drink half the bottle before heavy footsteps that don’t belong to the housekeeper interrupt my sulking. Bishop is home. Yesterday, I might have been excited, might have been hopeful that he would have news. But I have no home to return to, so I take another drink.
He walks right up to me, his arms folded and his mouth flattened into a thin line.
“Celebrating something?” he asks.
I glare up at him, cradling the bottle like it’s as precious as a child. “Your glorious return. I thought you’d left for good.”
He ignores the gibe at his absence and eyes the label. “You know Lenora will flay you alive if you finish that whole thing.”
“She’s not my mother.”
His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t smile. “No. She’s worse.”
“Find anything in Wintour?” I dare to ask him.
He pauses, and my heart leaps, only to plummet when he shakes his head. “Dead end.”
I’m not sure it really matters if he catches the king’s assassin anymore. My family has obviously disowned me, which is even more effective than clearing our family name.
“The queen kept you there long enough,” I say, changing the topic before I get even more depressed.
He hesitates as if he doesn’t want to tell me the real reason he was gone so long. Probably something to do with his unwanted houseguest.
So, I swig again, practically daring him to take it from me. He does, but instead of scolding me, he raises it to his own lips and takes a long swallow before he hands it back. “You shouldn’t drink alone.”
There isn’t a single light on in the room, and in the dark, he’s more a shadow than a man. If this house is haunted, maybe Bishop is its ghost.
“Not much else to do,” I say with a shrug.
He sits on the window seat, the wood creaking under his weight.
“There’s always something to do,” he says.
I snort. “Like what? No one will let me lift a finger.”
“That’s not true.” He shakes his head. “You could train. Learn how to fight.”
“For what?” I ask, voice sharper than any sword he might hand me. “Oh, wait, I remember. All the times people try to kill me, including your friends.”
He doesn’t even blink. “We have a saying at the Bellatorum: Wolves will bite.”
“Yeah? No shit.” I sip again, the wine warming my stomach, and pass the bottle to him. “What else do you say? The sky is blue?”
“It means …” His forehead creases as he considers how to explain it. “… no one hunts what can hurt them back.”
Somehow, it doesn’t feel that easy. “And if they still do?”
His gaze doesn’t leave mine. “Then the wolf chooses to live.”
“Profound.” He continues to stare. I sigh and swipe the wine. I’m going to need to be a little drunker for this conversation. “You really want me to learn to fight?”
“Vessica told me what happened in Wolf’s Keep. It wouldn’t be a bad idea if you carried a sword.”
I set the bottle on the floor. There’s no amount of wine that can convince me that’s a good idea. “Remember the last time I pulled a knife on someone?”
Like he could forget.
“That’s exactly why you should learn how to use a blade,” he says in a measured tone, as if slowing it down will help me understand what’s at stake. “The only thing more dangerous than a sword pointed at you is having one in your hands that you don’t know how to use.”
“Well, pretty much everybody wants me dead. Odds are, someone succeeds.” Is that the wine talking? Probably. Is the wine right? Unfortunately. “So, I’m not sure training me will matter much.”
He looks at me, really looks, and for a second, I see something almost like pity cross his face.
“It matters,” he says. “More than you know. Most people freeze. You fight back. It would just help if you knew what you were doing.”
I pick at a thread on the cushion, unsure what to say.
He stands and holds out his hand. “Come with me.”
He’s not wearing gloves, and I hesitate, my eyes snagging on his bare skin, on the silvery lines that form patterns unlike any birthright mark I’ve ever seen.
Curiosity wins, and I drop my hand in his to see if something will happen when I touch those lines.
His fingers close around mine, and the jolt that goes through me has nothing to do with those strange markings.
My skin warms under his touch, heat traveling across my skin.
I want to pretend it’s also due to the wine, but I’m too drunk to lie—even to myself.
Bishop pulls me upright, releasing me as soon as I’m on my feet, and shoves both hands in his pockets. I reach down to snag the bottle of wine, taking another long pull before following him out.
The house is quiet, apart from the faint ticking of a clock and the occasional creak of a floorboard.
I should ask where we’re going, but my brain is too muddled from the combination of wine and his touch to care.
He strides past the library and takes the stairs two at a time, forcing me to keep up with him.
But I stop in my tracks when he continues straight toward the western wing.
He traces a pattern on the lock, then pushes the door open and gestures me inside.
I hold my breath as I step through, half expecting a torture chamber, but it’s only a sitting room.
Large but not particularly grand, with a bank of east-facing glass doors and cozy, overstuffed furniture littered with mismatched pillows.
The sea pounds the stone outside, making the floor shudder like it’s breathing.
The hearth is dark and cold, but Bishop twists a knob on the wall, and a pair of sconces blaze to life above it, illuminating a large, darker patch of paint over the mantel.
Turning, I discover a dozen more dark spots, as if every portrait and painting that once hung in this part of the house has been taken down.