Page 110 of Embers of Ruin

“Lyra.” I hate the way he says my name when he is done being patient. I want his softness back.

What I hate more is that it works.

I turn back to the book, because looking at him makes thinking harder than it should. “Silver hair is not inherited.”

“No.” The answer comes too easily, and finally, it’s the truth. I can tell.

My pulse jumps as I look at him. “You knew.”

“Yes.”

“Queen Seraphine is not my ancestor.”

“No.”

“So why show me her portrait?”

“I didn’t show you her portrait. You found it.”

“Don’t be difficult, Thorin. Now is not the time”

“I’m being accurate.”

“You’re being an ass.”

His mouth twitches, and I want to hit him with the book. I think it’s large enough to make an impact.

“You knew the silver hair was a manifestation,” I say. “A mark. A sign. Whatever dramatic word the dead scholars preferred.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you were not ready.”

The phrase hits the air between us like a spark to dry grass.

I step closer, anger rising fast enough to burn away some of the fear. “If you say that to me one more time, I’m going to punch you.”

“You would prefer the truth given all at once?”

“I would prefer being treated like the person the truth belongs to.”

Something shifts in his face. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

But enough for me to know the words struck.

Good. Let them.

He moves around the table, and I refuse to step back even though the space between us shrinks with every slow, deliberate step. His shadows slide beneath the shelves, silent as spilled ink, curling along the floorboards before stilling near my boots.

“You think truth belongs to the person it concerns,” he says.

“Yes.”