Page 187 of Harbinger

“Oh, thank the Stars!” She jumps to her feet and presses the back of her hand to my forehead. “No fever. That’s good.”

“How long was I out?” I ask.

She glances at the window. “You missed breakfast and nearly missed lunch. I kept some soup warm for you.”

I try to get up, but the effort makes my head spin. She urges me back down. “Don’t rush. You gave us all quite a scare.”

I scan the room for any sign of Bishop. “Where is he?”

“He was called away to Wintour.” She busies herself fluffing a pillow and tucking it behind my head. “He waited to leave until you were through the worst.”

I swallow that information, unsure how to feel about it. I only remember snatches of last night, but he’s in every memory. I force myself to go back further and bolt upright. “Is Shea—”

“She’s fine,” Lenora says. “A bit worse for wear, but up and about. She left with Breccan a few hours ago.”

“And the rest of them?” I vaguely recall shouting.

Lenora’s mouth flattens into a line. “Bishop sent everyone home.”

I manage a weak laugh. “Didn’t think he liked them much anyway.”

She smooths the quilt bundled around me. “You need to rest. I’ll bring up a tray.”

She bustles out, and I close my eyes, wishing I could sleep for a hundred years, or until Bishop returns.

Whichever comes first.

But sleep doesn’t come.

Because I keep remembering how he looked at me last night. Like losing me might break him.

And he left anyway.

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?”