Page 144 of Harbinger

Not that I’m about to tell him he was right about anything. After today, I can’t imagine how he’d use that against me.

But I don’t want to let go of the feeling, either, so I stalk to the garden. I trudge into the center of it and look at my progress so far. The dead, hanging vines are finally gone from every zone, and I’ve cleared most of the fallen leaves, too, although more keep showing up from all the damn wind. There are still plenty of brambles and dead rosebushes to deal with.

And of course, there’s still the damn fountain, which I do not feel the strength to tackle in my present state of exhaustion. I settle for weeding the patch I didn’t finish yesterday.

I fold onto the ground, crisscrossing my legs, and sink my fingers into the soft earth to fist the roots of a large weed. I yank it free and toss it to the side. Then another. And another.

My thoughts drift to my conversation with Hadrian in the garden. It feels like a lifetime ago. Then I think about the book of Icaros magic that I’ve been secretly reading at night.

I’ve not felt even the slightest twinge of power since the Kindling. Nothing like how Broderic described coming into his. But maybe that’s because I’m too afraid to even try?

My hand hesitates on the next weed. Before I chicken out, I begin tracing the pattern for growth. What’s the worst that could happen? It actually works and I have to weed the entire fucking garden again? I’ll take it if it means I have another way to be useful.

Down. Left. Half circle looping up. Horizontal line.

I drop my hand into my lap and stare at the weed in front of me, willing it to grow.

Absolutely nothing happens.

Relief and dread arrive as a matched set, the way they always do these days. I grit my teeth and yank the weed free with enough force to border on vengeance.

Fuck the Stars.

Scooting to the right, I attack the next section of weeds.

I lose track of time, the sun melting into a pool of rosy orange when Bishop’s shadow falls over me.

I don’t bother to look at him. But mostly because it hurts my neck to lift my chin more than an inch. “Did you remember that I earned answers?”

That was part of our arrangement. I’d been so relieved that the torture was over, I’d completely forgotten.

But he snorts. “I answered your questions.”

My eyes snap up to him, sharp pain shooting from the base of my skull to … everywhere. But I hardly notice because he’s smiling grimly down at me.

“What? I never even asked anything!”

“You questioned me about running, if it was time for swords. You questioned everything I told you to do.” He ticks each of my sins off on his fingers.

“Are you serious?”

His mouth curves, but his eyes remain shadowed. “Is that one of your questions?”

He’s certainly serious now.

My mouth falls open. “Those weren’t my questions.”

His smile is far from amused. “They came out of your mouth. You asked them.”

Unbelievable.

Of course he’s going to hold every little thing against me. He seems to relish stroking his authority.

But I won’t make the same mistake tomorrow.

He lingers like he’s waiting for me to apologize or argue with him. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of either. I turn back to the weeds and rip at them like they’re his perfect face.

But he’s not done punishing me.