“I listen when useful.”
“Poor goats.”
I let the smallest edge of a smile show, because the alternative is acknowledging that I am frightened for him. Corin would rather chew glass than accept that plainly before noon.
He twirls the iron rod once, though the motion is slower now. “Are you going to tell her?”
The question strikes where I do not want it to.
Sable.
Her hand on my jaw in the yard. Her voice insisting that choice must be shared. Her fury when I withheld the terms of mysacrifice. Her trust rebuilding itself with deliberate care, stone by stone, after I gave it reasons to crack.
I should tell her.
The thought arrives cleanly, annoyingly righteous.
Then the fear follows.
If I tell her, she will hear more than Corin has changed. She will hear that the ritual we chose together may have stolen something from her brother without consent. She will see another life altered because of our bond, our power, our desperate attempts to survive. She will think of his mortality as something taken in the blast radius of loving me.
Perhaps she will be right.
Corin sees the answer before I give it.
His smile returns, but it has no warmth. “Ah.”
“Do not.”
“Very well. I won’t say the obvious thing about secrets, demon. You seem fond of learning lessons the hard way.”
“I am not hiding this to control her.”
“Intentions are lovely little cushions. They do not soften the fall as much as people hope.”
My temper stirs. “You hid it.”
“Yes,” he says. “Because it is mine.”
“That distinction will not comfort her.”
“No. But it is real.” He looks toward the house, and for the first time, the affection in his face is naked enough to be painful. “She has had enough stolen from her. I wanted to understand what I was before I gave her something new to mourn.”
The anger drains out of me, leaving something heavier.
“You should have told me,” I say.
“I just did.”
“No, you waited until I found it.”
“And you waited until she was not in the yard to look.”
We stand there with the accusation shared fairly between us.
Corin turns back to the target and raises the iron rod. “For the moment, I will continue training. You will continue lurking like a decorative threat. We will both pretend this is strategy rather than cowardice.”
“I am not fond of being called cowardly.”
