THIRTY-TWO
“Morning. Glad to see you’re still breathing.” Two weeks later, and Taliesin’s now-standard morning greeting is more upbeat than usual. Because everybody wants to be reminded that half the world wants you dead just in case you become an evil witch before breakfast.
“No assassinations to report,” I confirm, dropping into the chair across from him.
“Well, I’m sure they’re trying,” he says a bit too cheerfully.
Lenora plops a plate of scones with thickened cream and jam in front of him. Pausing, she pats his shoulder. “That joke’s not getting any funnier, dear.”
But, still, it’s somehow comforting.
Not just that I survived another night but that someone noticed.
Bishop certainly isn’t bothering with that.
He’s been too busy the last couple of weeks, between interrogating every family member who was at Twelvetide to chasing leads on the heart collector, who struck again over the holidays. This time in Florentia.
Or so I’m told.
Bishop is barely home for more than a few minutes between trips, and every time I see him, he’s already walking back out the door.
I force myself to put food on my plate. My appetite hasn’t been the same since the bellanotte, as if the poison still lingers in my blood weeks later.
Sometimes my hands start to shake when I lift a glass to my lips.
Other days, there’s a tangle in my stomach that tightens at the first bite of a meal.
It’s a little better every morning, though I’m not sure I’ll ever enjoy sparkling wine again.
Although maybe my lack of appetite has more to do with Bishop’s constant absence.
“I thought I’d let Shea take a few swings at you today,” Taliesin says around a mouthful of scone.
He’s doing an admirable job of pretending not to care that Bishop’s absence has saddled him with the responsibility of overseeing my training.
Since Twelvetide, every session feels less like practice and more like preparation for whatever comes at me next.
But I frown at his suggestion, pushing roasted potatoes around my plate with my fork. “I’m not sure I want to train with Shea. What if I can’t fight a friend?”
Taliesin snorts. “Well, now you are definitely training with her.” He picks up his mug and downs its contents in a single swig. “You have to be prepared to face a friend.”
“Why?” I counter. I still haven’t eaten a bite. “It’s not like Shea is going to hurt me.”
“Trusting people like that is dangerous,” he warns me.
“I suddenly understand why you’re single.”
He laughs, shoving his blond hair out of his eyes, but doesn’t correct me. Instead, he nods toward my plate. “Better eat that. Shea won’t go easy on you.”
I cram a scone into my mouth, staring at the seat Bishop usually occupies.
I don’t bother reaching for a second. Shea might knock me flat on my back, but that still sounds better than haunting Miradores and wondering where Bishop has gone off to this time.
Pushing back my chair, I stand up. “Let’s get this over with. ”
Taliesin sighs as he rises, unable to contain his disappointment.
We head out through the kitchen door. The sky is a wash of gray, a familiar dampness hanging in the air.
The oscen peeks from its nest but doesn’t come out to greet us.
Something tells me my absence is being punished.
But with the ground half frozen, I haven’t spent as much time in the garden, only coming to take my frustration out on the stump I’m still trying to dig up.
“Want to talk about it?” Taliesin asks as we reach the bridge.
“About what?”
Taliesin says, “About the reason you’re not eating.”
“I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“Neither has he,” Taliesin says, calling my bluff.
“Good,” I say, and that’s the end of it. We walk the rest of the way in silence.
A few lanterns burn dimly along the paths, but this early on seventh day, the Bellatorum is still quiet. Most of the conscripts must have opted to spend their day off from classes and drills in bed. We’re nearly to the proving grounds when Taliesin curses.
Looking up, I find we’re on a collision course with Bishop. His coat is unbuttoned despite the cold, and the shadows under his eyes are darker than usual.
“I’ll go round up Shea,” Taliesin mutters and veers ahead. He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just slips into the side entrance, leaving me alone with Bishop in the empty courtyard.
We stand there, neither one wanting to make the first move. Finally, Bishop breaks the stalemate. “You’re up early.”
“So are you.” I take a deep breath. “Where have you been?”
“Business.” He shifts his attention over my shoulder like his mind is already somewhere else.
My jaw tightens at the dismissal, but I refuse to give up. “Doing what? Or are you too busy to talk to me, too?”
Something splinters in his wintery blue eyes, but it’s gone before I can name it.
“I have responsibilities, Arden.”
That’s bullshit. “Is this about Twelvetide?”
He hesitates. “It’s my duty to find the person who poisoned two of my subjects.”
“Subjects?” I repeat.
“I am responsible for you,” he reminds me. “You are under my protection.”
“Is that why you’re ignoring me?”
He exhales slowly. “You don’t understand, Arden.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I am supposed to keep you safe, not …” He stops, pressing his lips into a thin line.
“Not fuck me,” I finish for him when he refuses to say it.
He winces. “Not get distracted.”
A hollow laugh bursts out of me. “So, pushing me away is your big solution?”
What about the Turning? The baths? He said it meant something. He saved my mother’s locket. How can he act like there’s nothing between us?
“I have to.” He drags a hand through his hair, refusing to look at me.
For a second, I only stare. “So that’s it, then?” I finally say. “You’re just going to pretend nothing happened between us?”
He doesn’t flinch. “I’m a bishop. I swore an oath.”
I jab a finger into his chest so hard that he actually rocks back a step. “This isn’t because you’re a bishop.” My voice cracks, and I swallow. “It’s because you’re a coward. Just like I was that night in the baths. You convinced me to live again, remember?”
He can’t take that back now. But his face remains as stony as the nearby statues.
I don’t bother waiting for an answer before I turn and hurry toward the proving grounds, the threat of tears stinging my eyes.
When I reach them, Shea is waiting, already suited up in her training uniform. She takes one look at my face and frowns. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” I say, ignoring the lump lingering in my throat as I tighten the strap on my left bracer. “Let’s just get started.”
Shea nods, but she doesn’t look convinced, shaking her head before we continue to the weapons rack.
She pauses to consider her choice. I just grab the first sword I see.
Its blade is longer than I’m accustomed to, but isn’t that the whole point of this exercise—to throw me in the water and see if I drown?
Taliesin meets us as we head into the arena. “Ready?” he asks, eyeing me like he expects me to explode.
“More than ready,” I growl.
Taliesin and Shea share a look.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Shea asks again as we take our places.
“I’m fine,” I snap as Taliesin circles us, pausing just once to assess my grip.
The ground beneath our boots is packed down from yesterday’s rain, the broken stones a hazardous mix of jagged rocks, sand, and mud. Cold air gusts through the training pit, carrying the briny scent of the sea.
“Remember, you’re not friends when there are swords in your hands,” he mutters low enough that Shea can’t hear him.
He’s smiling, but the words are so cold, they raise the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Okay. Rules are simple: first to disarm or land a blow to the neck, chest, or head gets the point.”
I’m not sure I can take any more blows today. Not after the one Bishop just delivered to my heart.
Taliesin steps away and nods for us to begin. I plant my foot, my sword only half raised when Shea lunges, her blade aimed at my ribs. I block it, barely, the shock of the sudden impact vibrating through my fingers.
Stop thinking about him and fight.
Shea moves for the left, second blow coming before I can reset my stance.
I twist awkwardly, only for her sword to arc over her head and slice down, narrowly avoiding my right shoulder.
But it’s a distraction. Her sword cuts low, and I stumble back, losing my footing as the blade taps my thigh.
I hit the ground hard, the air punching from my lungs with a force that rattles my teeth.
“One!” Taliesin calls.
I blink up at Shea as she offers me a hand.
I guess Taliesin was right about not being friends in here.
Ignoring her extended hand, I scramble back to my feet.
People are trying to kill me. This is survival.
I need to learn to protect myself—because I’m not sure I can stay in Vennaro.
And the last thing I want is to prove that Bishop’s right, that I’m so weak he has to protect me instead of …
“Taliesin told me not to go easy on you,” she says, almost apologetically, as we begin to circle each other.
“Good.” I flex my wrist, rebalancing the weight of my sword. “You won’t break me.”
And neither will he. I won’t let him.
This time, I attack first. The high slash is meant to drive her back as I pivot to the side, aiming for her shoulder.
She parries every move, like she can anticipate them, and when I hesitate, torn between lunging and feinting, she spins, crossing our swords at an angle that forces mine from my hand.
“That’s two,” Taliesin says, keeping track like everyone can’t see who is winning.