Page 122 of Harbinger

He pushes onto his feet. “Not tonight.”

“Of course not.” After all of this, after everything, he’s still keeping secrets.

But the others … they knew. Taliesin’s calmness, Vessica’s slip about talking to Bishop … I didn’t understand in the woods. Didn’t understand Lenora’s words. He’ll explain …

They all know, and I don’t even get a basic explanation.

You didn’t scream. Taliesin will be disappointed.

“Everyone else knows, don’t they?”

Bishop sets the jar of salve on my nightstand. “Yes.”

It’s not confirmation. It’s a slap in the face.

“Everyone?”

The muscles in his neck bulge like he’s biting back what he wants to say to this. “Everyone with access to this house.” He crosses his arms, and the thin material of his shirt strains against his muscles like even it is desperate to escape this conversation. “Taliesin. Vessica. Hadrian. Lenora.”

My grip tightens on the book, its primary function shifting from anchoring me to occupying my hands so I don’t strangle him. “But not me.”

He meets my gaze without flinching. There’s not an ounce of apology staring back at me.

“You don’t trust me.” It’s not an accusation. It’s a fact. And somehow, that makes it worse.

His eyes flash. “Like you trust me?”

He reaches into the pocket of his burned trousers and pulls out a crumpled sheet of parchment. My letter, its edges blackened by smoke.

He thrusts the letter toward me.

I don’t need to read it again. The words are burned into me.

Bishop,

Don’t come after us. Everyone in Antares

will be better off without me, especially you.

—A

P.S. Your secret is safe with me.

The ink is smeared where blood soaked through, warping the words until they mean something else entirely. Evidence of the choice I made. Of what it cost.

“And what secret is that?” he asks, eyes skirting to the book.

“Don’t you mean which? There are so many.” The children he doesn’t force into conscription. The reason his estate is falling apart. Being a scion. But I can’t bring myself to ask him if he killed the king. “Secret trips. Lying about your location.”

“I was in Wintour,” he cuts in. “I saw the queen.”

Maybe it wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth. And it’s not the only thing that he’s kept from me. “Care to explain the others?”

“We will talk about this in the morning,” he says through clenched teeth.

But I’ve gone too far to stop now.

“You hid things. You let me believe …” Angry tears clog my throat. I swallow them and keep going. “You let me believe you were helping me.”