Page 175 of Harbinger

And I can’t enjoy any of it.

Because I’m expected to make constant small talk—every single member of Bishop’s extended family seems eager to chat with me. And every single one of them manages to get a slight in, their comments ranging from overtly rude to almost laughably oblivious. Shea stays with me the whole time, offering polite smiles and pleasantries before excusing us firmly when someone tries to get their hooks in deeper.

We’ve made a full round of the room, but before we can retire to shove pastries in our mouths, a willowy woman steps into our path. Thin lines pinch the corners of her eyes, her lips twisting into something stuck between a grimace and a smile.

“We heard our cousin brought you here,” she says, an icy current running through her voice. But it’s the young woman next to her who makes me fall back a step. They have the same calculating eyes. “Lady Perran,” she adds in introduction but doesn’t offer her hand. “I believe you met my daughter, Livia, at the Quincentennial.”

Met is an overstatement—the lone Marius initiate kept to herself. But I force a smile. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Livia snorts, her dark gaze darting around the room like she’s already bored. “You’re awfully chipper for a prisoner.”

“And well-dressed,” her mother mutters.

“Prisoner?” I repeat, and Shea steps closer like she senses trouble.

“You are the harbinger.” Lady Perran sniffs. “I can’t imagine any other reason Bishop would allow you into Vennaro. Of course, we all thought he’d have killed you by now.”

My mouth falls open. What had Shea said about not bringing weapons?

My friend takes a full step in front of me. “Perhaps you should ask Patron Marius about that. I’m sure he’s dying for your opinion.” Shea steers me away before either of his cousins can get in another snub.

“Thank you,” I say when we finally work our way to the banquet tables groaning beneath the weight of Lenora’s lavish spread. Platters are crammed everywhere, their edges overlapping to make up for the lack of room for all of it, the polished wood of the table barely visible beneath the sprawling feast. Steam rises in lazy spirals from heated serving trays, carrying the mingled scents of roasted fowl, melted butter, and spices warm enough to soften the chill of winter seeping into the room from the constantly opening front door.

I grab a plate and start piling everything I see on it. “Is there a contest I don’t know about?” I grumble to her. “Who can deliver the worst insult to my face?”

She snorts. “Do you think there’s a prize involved?” She pops a grape into her mouth and deadpans, “I could use the money.”

“And I thought we were becoming friends.” I polish off a honey tart in two bites, suddenly famished. Which definitely has nothing to do with the constant simpering and ogling.

It’s because he keeps moving through the room. Never close enough to cross paths. Never far enough for me to miss. But always just within my periphery.

Every time, it’s like a shift in gravity. Like I can feel him before I see him.

He doesn’t look at me once, apparently immune to whatever invisible thread keeps pulling my attention back to him.

Maybe I imagined that look on his face at my bedroom door earlier. Four honey tarts later, I’m still not sure.

The closer the clock creeps to midnight, the more I find myself checking Bishop’s location.

At an hour to the Turning, I spot him near the doorway, talking with a richly dressed man with rings on every finger and a voice that carries like he wants the whole room to hear him.

Bishop’s eyes lift and meet mine across the room. Our gazes lock, and then … he turns away, continuing his conversation as if he didn’t see me at all.

The casual dismissal might as well be a blade slid neatly between my ribs.

I stop looking after that.

When there’s less than half an hour until midnight, the crowd moves toward the hall. The borrowed servers appear carrying goblets of sparkling wine on silver trays. Anticipation and dread tangle into a knot in my stomach.

Someone jostles their way through the swarm to us, Lenora appearing a moment later in a deep-green gown, her sleeves rolled up but not entirely hiding their usual dusting of flour. A sprig of holly hangs limply from her bun, and I can’t quite decide if it got stuck there accidentally during the decorating, or if she pinned it there hours ago and it finally conceded its bid to keep up with her.

A server appears at the same moment she does and holds out his tray. “Last two.”

Shea and I both snag flutes of the sparkling wine.

“Here.” I hold it out to Lenora. If anyone deserves a drink tonight, it’s her.

But she waves me off. “I still have to clean up after everyone goes to bed.”