Page 102 of Harbinger

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.