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“I can’t imagine where you got an idea like that.” His gaze wanders to my dress, then lingers on my face. “You look…” He pauses, a strange light darting through his eyes. Then he smiles and says, “anxious, ma fleur.”
My flower, I hear automatically in my head. This time, something about the way he says his nickname for me—a silkier tone, an unspoken secret behind it—makes heat rise on my cheeks. He’s purposely trying to throw me off right before my confirmation, taunting my reaction to my patron god.
“What are you doing here?” I say heatedly.
He just holds up his hands. “I was standing here first, minding my own business. So I believe you were the one who interrupted me. Besides, what about that ring of yours?” He reaches over, his fingers lightly brushing against my hand that wears my Artifact, and I shiver. My ring flashes cold, as if in indignation. “I thought Raven’s little gift for you was supposed to warn you about your surroundings.”
“It warns me of threats,” I say, pulling my hand back. “Unless you happen to be one.”
“Maybe it just doesn’t work very well. Have you tried reconfiguring it?”
“Are you here to insult me,” I say, “or to congratulate me on my confirmation?”
“Maybe we’re just two guests seeking some peace,” he answers, turning his head toward the others in the atrium, “although neither one of us seems to be getting that at the moment.”
I sigh. “It’s my fault for even acknowledging you.”
“Frankly, I think it’s your patron god’s fault, for setting you on edge right before your confirmation.”
“Raven didn’t set me on edge,” I retort.
He looks down skeptically at me, then holds up his wrist with the silk bracelet. “I can always sense a lie, you know,” he says. “The way you turned in his arms during the dance. The way you have trouble meeting his gaze, as if it hurts you to look at him. You constantly act like you’re trying to pull away and flee. Your smiles never quite reach your eyes or your voice.”
I rest my hands on my hips. “What about my voice?”
“It changes, tightens up,” he says. “You’re not yourself.”
“And what, you act like yourself around Thorn?”
“My patron god thinks I’m a delight, thank you.”
I glare at him, then look away. Raven is nowhere to be seen now.
“It’s not a lie,” I say at last, my voice quieting. “I’m just … scared. Stress hormones. You know.”
His smile turns amused. “Do I?”
“Oh, cortisol, and all that.”
What am I even saying? If Laine were here, she’d be shaking her head at me in mortification. Spouting random chemistry trivia at a dance, and at a rival Harbinger, no less.
“What are you afraid of?” he asks.
Losing Laine, I think immediately. But to him, I just shake my head. “Nothing,” I murmur.
I wait for Étienne to tease me again, for his Artifact to signal my lie. But when I look up at him, I only see a searching gaze.
“Like I said. I’m good at keeping secrets.” He shrugs. “Besides, I remember what it’s like to have a confirmation—more than the rest of these old-timers, at least.”
“You were confirmed right before I became a Harbinger,” I say, and he nods. “What was it like?”
“What do you think?” He leans down toward me and lowers his voice. “A snooze fest, just like this one.”
I try not to laugh, caught between relief and perplexing disappointment. The sound comes out as a snort.
To my mortification, he smiles at my reaction. “I was scared, too,” he says after a pause. “Being judged before an immortal counsel isn’t for the faint of heart.”
“Did anyone object to your confirmation?” I ask.
