THIRTY-ONE #2
Eventually, Bishop releases me and begins to pace the length of the rug, hands clasped behind his back and eyes distant. Taliesin keeps hold of Shea’s arms while Hadrian retrieves a blanket and tucks it around her.
I’m the only one rooted in place, listening as her breathing slows. My own pulse does the same as the adrenaline pumping through my blood begins to ebb. I still can’t decide if being a scion is a blessing or a curse.
“None of her rivals would do this,” Taliesin says. “Maybe it was an accident.”
People don’t accidentally get poisoned at Twelvetide, but I’m too tired to tell him that.
“Bellanotte is expensive,” Hadrian says, adding, “and hard to get. Someone wanted her dead. Or they meant to kill someone else.”
We all know he means me. I’m the only target that makes sense. I wait for the old fear to hit, but I’m too tired. Tired of waiting for magic that doesn’t come. Tired of being a pawn in other people’s games. Whatever happens on this side of the Turning needs to be up to me.
Hadrian is still thumbing through a book like the answer is hidden inside, but his gaze flicks to Bishop for a fraction of a second before returning to the pages. “Lord Perran is here.”
“He doesn’t have the imagination,” Bishop says.
I laugh, but it catches in my throat, my mouth suddenly dry as if I’ve been breathing cold air for too long. When I stand to get a drink, the room sways beneath my feet. I grab hold of the chair as an icy prickle crawls across my skin.
“Arden?” Bishop’s voice is oddly distant.
“I’m fine,” I say, but the words come out slurred. “Just … tired.”
“Did you drink anything at the party?” Hadrian’s eyes narrow. At least I think they do. The room is full of fog.
“Not really,” I mumble, flopping back into the chair. “Just a sip of wine … during the toast.” Before Breccan knocked it from my hand. “I didn’t even finish it.”
Bishop is at my side in two strides, kneeling in front of me, his hands bracketing my face. “Tell me exactly how you feel.”
“Tired. Dizzy.” The words tangle together, slipping away before I can catch them. I flex my fingers, realizing they feel funny, too. But I can’t remember the word for it. I hold my hand out like maybe Bishop can see what’s wrong with it.
“Her pupils are dilated,” Bishop says quietly. He sounds like he’s standing at the end of a tunnel.
I want to ask what that means, but my body answers for me. My arms go slack, the room tilting in a way that makes my head swim. Bishop cradles it against his shoulder.
Someone is moving. I don’t know if it’s me.
“Stay with me, Arden,” Bishop murmurs, the words stretching and blurring.
“I’m here,” I manage, though I’m not sure that’s true. The world softens at the edges, becoming nothing more than sounds. Shouting. Footsteps. Doors opening and closing.
Someone presses a cloth to my forehead. Another voice tells me to breathe. I do, but it doesn’t seem to help. My mind drifts away from the party to memories of Wintour. Shopping with Kieren. Watching eyes and footsteps. Someone following. Always following.
A connection sparks and fizzles as the darkness crowds in, erasing all but one word.
Harbinger.
“Get everyone the fuck out of my house.” Bishop’s snarl cuts through the haze. I latch on to it like an anchor. “I don’t care if it’s midnight. Empty it.”
“Bit of an ask, boss,” Taliesin says. “The posterns won’t hold up if you try to send a hundred drunk relatives through them at once.”
“Start pushing,” Bishop growls.
The last things I hear before I black out are the distant, rhythmic clang of the estate’s bell and Bishop’s heart pounding under my ear.
The night blurs in fevered flashes stitched together by the fiery ache working its way through my skin.
There’s something soft against my cheek.
Sheets, I realize as I sink into a pillow that smells like leather and mint and a hint of icy winter.
The room is dark, but I know it’s Bishop’s, because even now, I feel safe.
A hand strokes the hair from my face, fingers shaking.
“Come back,” he whispers. “I need you.” The words echo in my head, clinging there even as I start to slip away again.
I drift, sometimes waking to a palm pressed to my chest, counting my heartbeats. Sometimes the pillow is gone, and I’m cradled in his arms.
And when I wake, thrashing violently to vomit, Bishop catches me before I can fall from the bed. He holds my hair back with one hand, the other bracing my shoulders as he murmurs something low and steady I can’t quite hear.
When it’s over, he draws a quilt over me. “You’re safe,” he says roughly. “I swear it.”
I want to tell him I know that, but the poison steals the words, and I collapse into the darkness again.
Voices find me in a place between dreams and waking.
“The worst is over,” Hadrian says.
“We need to know how much she was given,” Bishop growls.
“If it was a lethal dose, she’d be dead by now.” Hadrian again.
Something slams, followed by a crack.
“She will recover,” Hadrian insists. “Let her rest.”
Bishop’s voice fades along with me.
I wake shivering, sheets twisted around my legs as dawn seeps through the windows.
My skin is covered in a sheen of sweat, but I’m freezing.
Bishop is sleeping in a chair by the bed, vestiges peeking past his unbuttoned collar.
One of his hands rests on the mattress, as if he couldn’t bring himself to let go even after I fell asleep.
I reach for him, fingers brushing his hand, and his eyes snap open.
“Arden?” he says hoarsely, voice choked with something that isn’t just sleep.
“That’s me,” I mumble, discovering how dry my lips are.
He leans forward, taking my hand in both of his. “You scared the shit out of me.”
I try to laugh, but it comes out as a croak. “I’m not that easy to kill.”
Someone tried to kill me. It still feels like I’m caught in a dark cloud, but that’s becoming clear enough.
“Here.” Bishop brings a cup of water to my mouth, but I’m shaking so hard now that it spills down my breasts.
I blink, realizing that I’m in nothing but my undergarments.
“You were burning up,” he explains, pulling the sheets up to cover me.
I smile weakly. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.” But each word is punctuated by the clack of chattering teeth as the fever works its way from my body. “So cold.”
Bishop climbs into the bed and pulls me against his chest. I melt into him, his heat a balm soothing the final chills coursing through me. His lips press into my hair, and he murmurs words that sound dangerously close to a prayer as I settle into the cage of his arms.
This time, when the darkness comes, I fall into it without fear.
I come to in stages, increasingly aware of a hammering behind my eyes.
When I finally pry them open, my tongue is thick, my skin clammy, and every joint in my body throbs.
When I try to roll over, I discover he’s gone.
The effort at movement leaves me dizzy, so I settle for blinking up at the ceiling as this processes.
The empty space in the bed beside me hurts worse than any poison.
A soft snore draws my attention to the chair by my bed. Lenora is there, her Twelvetide gown rumpled and her head tilted back as she dozes.
I force myself to sit up, and she startles awake.
“Oh, thank the Stars!” She jumps to her feet and presses the back of her hand to my forehead. “No fever. That’s good.”
“How long was I out?” I ask.
She glances at the window. “You missed breakfast and nearly missed lunch. I kept some soup warm for you.”
I try to get up, but the effort makes my head spin. She urges me back down. “Don’t rush. You gave us all quite a scare.”
I scan the room for any sign of Bishop. “Where is he?”
“He was called away to Wintour.” She busies herself fluffing a pillow and tucking it behind my head. “He waited to leave until you were through the worst.”
I swallow that information, unsure how to feel about it. I only remember snatches of last night, but he’s in every memory. I force myself to go back further and bolt upright. “Is Shea—”
“She’s fine,” Lenora says. “A bit worse for wear, but up and about. She left with Breccan a few hours ago.”
“And the rest of them?” I vaguely recall shouting.
Lenora’s mouth flattens into a line. “Bishop sent everyone home.”
I manage a weak laugh. “Didn’t think he liked them much anyway.”
She smooths the quilt bundled around me. “You need to rest. I’ll bring up a tray.”
She bustles out, and I close my eyes, wishing I could sleep for a hundred years, or until Bishop returns.
Whichever comes first.
But sleep doesn’t come.
Because I keep remembering how he looked at me last night. Like losing me might break him.
And he left anyway.