Page 93 of Storm Caller

“Just some water for me,” Rook says. My mom presses her lips together as she takes him in. Obviously, they already met that night we broke into the apartment. The same night, he said he’d kill anyone who hurt me.

But her expression remains neutral, revealing nothing.

“A glass of wine, Poet? We need to celebrate. You don’t turn twenty every day!”

“It’s your birthday?” Rook asks.

I huff out a sound that is part laugh, part snort. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

I shake my head. “Sorry. With everything going on, I kind of forgot.”

“Forgot your birthday!” my mother exclaims, pressing an offended hand to her chest. She’s always been big on birthdays and loves to splash out. Personally, I’ve always preferred to treat them like any other day, but I never objected to her over-the-top planning because it seemed to make her happy. “Cara, open the bubbly!”

“Yes, Mrs. Graves,” she says, already clutching a bottle of something pricey. Cara pours three glasses for my parents and me and hands them around. She then cracks open a green bottle of the precious rainwater collected from Emerald Storms and pours a glass for Rook. He eyes it for a moment, and I don’t need to hear his thoughts to understand what he’s thinking.

The water that falls freely from the sky is collected and sold. People are forbidden from gathering their own. When viewed through my new lens, all these things are so unnecessarily cruel. So simple in their obvious attempts to exert control, and we all fall for it.

My mother doesn’t notice Rook’s hesitation as she lifts her glass in a toast.

“To Poet!” she says, and Rook and my dad echo the sentiment as we clink glasses and take a sip. My mom is happier than I’ve seen her in a while, keeping up a steady stream of conversation and posing a thousand questions about Amery. It’s clear these are the things she’s been dying to ask during our estrangement, and I’m happy that I finally get to share.

She even broaches a few questions with Rook, asking about his family and where he grew up. He keeps his answers polite, if vague, and he has no problem talking about how much he loves them all, so that seems safe enough.

The same continues through dinner, and I find myself relaxing, relieved that my parents are at least outwardly polite to Rook. I’m sure they have some very specific thoughts about a Solitude dining at their table, but they’re putting on a great act.

Once the meal is over, my father addresses me. “Poet, I’d like to speak with you in private for a minute.”

Some part of me understood this was coming.

I welcome it because I have questions, too.

“Sure,” I say, gripping the arms of my chair as I address Rook. “Will you be okay for a minute?”

“Yeah,” he says, wariness in his eyes. “Of course.”

“I’ll keep him entertained,” my mom promises.

“You sure?”

“Yes, you go,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”

“Thanks,” I say, and then I follow my dad to his study. He closes the door and crosses the room, setting his drink on the desk and then leaning on the edge to face me. I’m surprised by how steady I feel in his presence. I’m still nervous, but I’m not reacting the way I normally do. The racing pulse. Shaking limbs. That strange, hollow, floating sensation. It’s a welcome relief. A reminder that I’m healing and that I’m stronger than I think.

“Your mother insisted that we invite you tonight,” he says, getting straight to the point. “But you still chose to pledge to House Aria, and nothing has really changed.”

I exhale a short breath. I knew this would be the case. Maybe for a minute I forgot. Maybe for a minute I hoped we could move past this—even let myself believe we could.

“Right.”

“You still refuse to marry Knox?” he asks.

“I thought he was engaged.”

“Engagements can be broken. As you’re well aware.”

My teeth grind together. “Yes. I still refuse.”