Page 57 of Heart of Thieves

“You snuck out to frolic at the beach, steal diamonds, and pilfer pastries every other day for a decade.” His tone is frosty. “Some would call that freedom.”

“Oh yes. Being detested by everyone in my home was a real treat.” My fists clench. “What, was father’s adoration too much for you? It was so difficult to be cherished?”

“You think my childhood was charmed?” His brow rises.

“You were asked what you wanted to be when you grew up.” The words I’ve dreamed of screaming at him for so long spill out of my mouth before I can stop them. “You were sent to Father’s fancy theology school. You were given silver buttons and gilded editions of the Odelion.”

“Have you ever paused to wonder if I wanted any of that?” he asks. “Have you thought about the fact that you were free to spout your non-sense and be who you pleased because father had what he wanted from someone else?”

“Be who I pleased? He hit me!”

“He did. And he shouldn’t have. But you weren’t the only one he hit.”

My throat is suddenly thick. “He loved you.”

Nic grimaces. “He loved a performance.”

“That was no performance.” I shake my head.

“Do you know that?”

I open my mouth to retort, but the words die in my throat. Do I know that the obedient altar boy who followed our father like a shadow wanted to be that way? Have I ever asked him how he felt about it?

“Sometimes people crave love so wholly they convince themselves they are whoever they need to be to earn it.” He pauses, chewing his lip, then lowers his voice. “When you left zenithicism, our father did not mourn.”

“Exactly!” I grit my teeth. “He believed I was damning myself to the Deep, and he didn’t bat an eye!”

“There’s freedom in that. Because after that moonshard broke . . .” Nic trails off as though the rest of the sentence refuses to come out.

But my mind fills the silence.

After that moonshard broke, Nic abandoned the faith. When our father learned of that, he stopped leaving the house. Stopped eating. Stopped living.

Autopsy reports said he died of dehydration.

I feel suddenly ill.

Was Nic’s departure from the life our father wanted for him what killed him? Did Nic somehow know even when we were small that it was up to him to keep our father happy? Give him purpose?

The realization sours my stomach. Because Nic wasn’t the only one bearing the weight of someone else’s happiness.

“I don’t do whatever I want, though, Nic.” I pause, swallowing. “You’re always there with me. Every choice I make, every treasure I steal, every lie I tell, you’re there. A specter in my mind, a millstone around my neck.”

“What are you talking about?”

I step close. “Do you know how exhausting it was to carry the way you’d take responsibility for my choices? Knowing that my mistakes would cost both of us? That you would find a way to blame yourself for every decision I made?”

The cold light in his eyes holds steady even as shadows crawl in around the edges.

“Father may have relied on you to be happy, but I never asked that of you.” I can’t look at him anymore. “I am a whole human all on my own, Nic. Let me make my mistakes. Let me own them. They’re not yours to carry.”

He ponders that for a moment, his fingers listing along the books with the care and tenderness I know he’s tried to hide from the rest of the world ever since he became the Liar.

But he can’t hide it from me. I know him too well.

“Is that your way of telling me to leave you alone?” His tone is quiet, pensive, careful. And suddenly, the anger pulsing through me with every beat of Lola’s heart gutters out.

“After the tournament,” I say softly, “she went back for you—I know she did—and you sent her away. I want to know why.” I don’t have to tell him who I’m talking about.