Page 126 of Harbinger

And then I retreat again. Back to the room. To the window.

Waiting for birdsong that sometimes comes and then doesn’t for days. I stay silent through it all, because if I start screaming, I’ll never stop.

I pick at the food Lenora leaves on a tray three times a day without comment. Until this afternoon, nearly a week in, when my stomach declares mutiny, growling so loudly even I can’t stand it. But when I finally force myself to leave my room, Taliesin stops me near the stairs and holds out a large box.

“These are Kieren’s,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes. “You were listed as next of kin.”

The words next of kin settle heavily on my shoulders. They sound too official.

Too final.

“I can see to it if you want,” Taliesin says quietly when I don’t speak. “Give his things away. There are plenty of conscripts who show up here with nothing. Everyone at the Bellatorum knows what a stack of clothes left in the Commons means.”

Because cleaning up after the dead is just a way of life in Vennaro.

Dread bottoms out my stomach. Releasing the dead’s worldly belongings is the responsibility of the living during Interstice. “I’ll do it,” I tell him, but I cradle the box closer to my body. I’m not ready to part with the last remnants of him yet.

Taliesin nods like he understands. “If you change your mind …”

I’m gone before the offer fully leaves his mouth.

I don’t risk looking inside the box until I’m in my room. There isn’t much. Kieren’s pack—recovered from the docks. Mine was returned to my room days ago without comment. Folded clothes and almost new boots. A dog-eared copy of a pirate adventure he got ten Twelvetides ago. The little token, its carved pegasus worn down to smooth bone in spots. A leather pouch that’s heavier than I expect, though I don’t bother to count the coins inside. And two letters. One is mine, its creases worn soft and thin by his hands. Now stained dark where his blood soaked through the paper.

The other is sealed, more blood splattered across Isidore’s name and address on the envelope. There’s no postage on it, I realize with a pang that destroys any lingering appetite.

I put the box with the one my family sent me from Damalis. Maybe I’ll give those things away, too.

I try to ignore them both, try to pretend my heart doesn’t stutter every time I catch sight of them. But their presence is like monsters lurking in the shadows. I can’t pretend they aren’t there. After a few days, I can’t stand looking at them anymore. They’re nearly as bad as the book Bishop gave me and the answers trapped inside it.

I am fucking sick of waiting for someone else to give me answers. Sick of waiting for my magic to manifest. Sick of waiting around for someone else to come after me before it does. The only thing waiting has gotten me is a dead best friend.

I grab the leather-bound volume, determined to find them myself. But I don’t go looking for Bishop. I go the other way, down the somber corridors toward the library. The scent of old vellum and lingering woodsmoke from the nearly extinguished fire greets me at the door. Hadrian is working at one of the tables, his face half cloaked in shadow. Something eases in my chest.

Answers are clearly his life’s work. I could use some answers.

I plunk the book in front of him, harder than I intend to, and Hadrian glances up sharply. His eyes narrow on the title. “I was wondering where that went.”

“Bishop gave it to me.” I stick to the facts, afraid that if I offer more, like, Stars forbid, my opinion, I’ll break again. “He said it has answers about scions. About … him.”

Because that’s what I really need to understand. The man who rescued me. Who told me his deepest, darkest secret.

And has basically been avoiding me ever since.

Hadrian picks up the book and thumbs through it before shutting it again. “It’s not where I’d start if I wanted to understand what we are.”

“We?” I repeat, blinking at him in the library’s dim light. “You’re a …”

He frowns. “He didn’t tell you.” There’s no surprise in his voice. But he pushes up his sleeve and reveals the same strange markings Bishop hides on his own body.

Hadrian is a scion, too.

Anger floods my veins. “No, he didn’t tell me.”

Of course Bishop didn’t tell me. Because he always decides what I can handle. What I deserve to know.

For all I fucking do know, everyone in the house but me might be one of these starsdamned immortals. I might have never found out until Bishop …

I shut my eyes, trying to block the memory of him in my arms. Throat torn up. His neck a sheet of black blood that pooled into a warm puddle in my lap while shock held me in place so grief and guilt could sprout. And then he strode into my bedroom and ripped them out like weeds. Like death can be so easily uprooted.