NINETEEN #4
“Doing my job,” he shoots back. “Do you think I like being away from … here all the time? Some of us don’t have the luxury of staying home.”
“This isn’t my home.” He flinches, but the angry rush of heat surging through me makes each word easier than the last. “You should have told me what you were doing.”
His eyes narrow farther. “When I returned, you were heartbroken over the letter your best friend sent. It didn’t seem like the time to mention it.”
I am so fucking sick of people deciding what I can handle. “That wasn’t your call!”
“Did he tell you I was there to establish new troops at the eastern outpost?” he demands. “To protect your family?”
Just like he promised to do. The reminder ratchets my heart rate up another notch.
Maybe I can appeal to whatever nobility or sense of duty made him do that.
“Take Kieren’s name off the conscript list. He shouldn’t be here.
Shouldn’t be a conscript.” There’s a battle in his eyes.
My chest tightens as I watch him wage it. “Please.”
He tears his gaze from mine. “It’s not as simple as striking his name off a list.”
“It is for you,” I say, voice breaking. “You do it for all those kids.”
But he shakes his head. “Kieren is past the age of majority. He’s a man. Not a child. And he signed up at the eastern outpost. His name has already been reported to the crown.”
The air empties from my lungs, and I nearly collapse against the railing. The very outpost protecting my family has put my best friend—my brother—at risk.
Bishop takes a step closer, worry creasing his face. “He’ll be safe here. I’ll see to it.”
It’s too late, but I can’t tell him that. “Thank you.” I force myself to say it. Force myself to pretend that I’m not shattering to pieces on the spot. Kieren is leaving either way, and if his name is on the crown’s list …
“And I’ll be more welcoming.” His throat slides as if the promise is costing him something.
I nod, a numb realization slowly spreading through me. My voice breaks as I ask, “Because you feel responsible for my family?”
“I feel responsible for you,” he says, and a vise grips my chest. Bishop feels a duty to protect me. He made that obvious last night. Not Kieren. And if Kieren runs away … Which means there’s only one way to protect Kieren now. I know what I have to do.
“I should go to bed,” I murmur, unable to look Bishop in the eyes. He deserves better than this.
“Arden.” My name is soft on his lips, and something splinters in my chest, threatening to crack open. “I want—”
A fresh peal of Taliesin’s laughter interrupts us, and I seize the excuse to rush up the stairs, not trusting myself to continue this conversation any further. Something stops me when I reach the top, but when I turn around, Bishop is striding out the back door. It slams behind him.
I stare for a moment. Knowing what I have to do doesn’t make it any easier, so I continue to my bedroom.
I have a little over an hour until I need to meet Kieren.
I throw a few things into a bag, trying to ignore the traitorous ache in my heart.
Bishop will be better off when I go. My family will be safe thanks to the eastern outpost, and once news spreads that the harbinger has fled, things will go back to normal for all of them.
And if Kieren and I are caught, I might be the only thing that protects him when he’s charged with treason. I can’t stop Kieren from running, but I can say it was my idea. It might be enough to sway Bishop’s mercy.
And if we aren’t caught, we’ll start over. Build a new life together like Kieren said.
I move to grab a few things from the vanity. Lenora has lined up the brush and mirror she gave me since I got dressed for dinner. She’s always in here, tidying up and dropping off some small item she thinks I might need, trying to make me feel comfortable. Trying to make me feel like I’m home.
And I’m not even going to say goodbye to her. To any of them.
To Bishop.
My heart twists. A letter will have to do, but when I open the drawer, I find it empty. I used all the paper to write home.
I can’t go without leaving some word. They deserve that much. He deserves it.
Bishop has paper in his desk, so I make my way toward the western wing, praying he’s still outside.
Hoping he isn’t.
I crush that bewildering feeling. I can’t risk seeing him.
The western wing is unlocked tonight—another small, if confusing, kindness, like the way he stopped wearing his gloves. Like secrets no longer matter. I pause at the door, heart in my throat, but there’s no sound inside. I tiptoe in and find it empty. He’s still gone.
I hurry down the hall. His study is even more forbidding at night. The lamps are out, and the only light comes from the hallway.
I hesitate at the desk, fingers hovering over the drawer handle like the wood might bite, and listen for footsteps.
Sliding it open carefully, I find his travel log.
Wrong drawer. But I pick it up anyway. If I had just looked at this, I would have known he was in Damalis.
Not that it matters now. But as I go to set it down, a piece of paper falls out.
A report of some sort about a murder in Isoldoro.
I bend and snatch it, eyes snagging on the information.
It’s the one I saw reported on the Civicus that day at the Grand Arcade.
I open the log to shove it back inside and find myself staring at a list of Bishop’s travel.
Damalis. Wintour. I skim the log, knowing for the first time all the places he’s been since he brought me back from the royal city.
My eyes land on the dates I visited Wintour, and I feel a pang in my chest. That’s when everything changed. But it’s the date above it that catches my attention. Or the city, at least. Isoldoro. My eyes dart to the report, then back to the log.
Bishop was there.
Not after the murder. During. I crumple into the chair, hands shaking.
It’s just a coincidence that a murder took place.
Like it’s a coincidence that there was a murder in Damalis while he visited there?
Or one at the palace the night of my Kindling?
Tremors roll through me, my body hot and cold at the same time. It can’t be. He wouldn’t.
He protects people. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear the wet thwap of a knife impaling the body of that rat. Maybe I don’t know him at all.
But I’m certain of one thing after my time in Vennaro—he had to have a reason.
Fuck, I hope it was a good one.
I leave the western wing on unsteady legs, still clutching the log along with some stationery and hoping I make it down the corridor that leads to my own room before I fall. Or get caught. Or discover some other world-shattering bit of news.
This time when I step inside, my room is freezing, the fire down to embers. I dump the journal onto the bed and stare at it. Three places. Three murders. It isn’t proof, but it’s more than chance. Maybe Kieren is right. Maybe Bishop is dangerous. He might be responsible for the king’s murder.
I change out of my dress, opting for something warmer, but it can’t chase away the chill I feel. I have to go with Kieren, even if part of me needs to know the truth. Needs to know if Bishop is responsible for the king’s assassination and why.
I pace to the window. The garden is a mess of silver and shadow. The moon hangs low, and a shape shifts on the wall—a flickering silhouette of wings through the glass.
Maybe the king’s pet was never watching me at all. Maybe it was watching him.
“If you’re really a witch,” I whisper to the night, “now would be a good time to say something.”
But the oscen doesn’t appear. This is my choice.
I pull a pen from the drawer. My hands are shaking so badly, I almost drop it. I only write a few lines before leaving it on my pillow. Then I grab my bag, sit on the edge of the bed, and stare at the clock … waiting for the house to still. There’s only one path that makes sense.
I’m choosing my own fate. I’m done letting the Stars decide.