Page 213 of Harbinger

I know I am. No one pays this much attention to a family dinner without having a few screws loose.

“To your sister,” Laurel says, raising her own glass. “The new patron of”—she falters on the name but recovers—“of an ancient line.”

A muscle twitches in Broderic’s jaw, and he doesn’t lift his own cup.

“We’re celebrating,” she reminds him in that sugary tone.

Broderic does as he’s told. So do Isidore and Andry. Is every night like this?

I bring my own glass up, but I can’t force it past my lips. I’m already counting the minutes until this is over. Bishop doesn’t raise his glass either.

Across from me, Andry takes an eager gulp. His mouth puckers, face screwing into an expression of absolute horror.

“Disgusting,” he announces. Isidore shushes him.

“Laurel, you need sauce,” Broderic says, passing it to her before she can reprimand our little brother.

She giggles like he’s given her a compliment instead of passing a condiment. “You are so thoughtful.” Her hand lingers over his a second too long, something possessive in her touch as if she expects competition to break out over him any moment.

“I want sauce.” Andry throws his body halfway across the table, knocking my glass of wine over in the process. Crimson seeps across the pressed tablecloth.

A strangled gasp that’s almost animalistic escapes Laurel. I’ve never heard a person make that sound before.

“Andry,” she snaps.

“It was an accident, darling,” Broderic says quickly.

Laurel pauses, her face resetting into a smooth, pleasant expression that’s more disturbing than the gasp. “Of course it was an accident. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” She lays a hand on Andry’s shoulder, and he flinches.

But her smile hardens as she launches up to dab the linen like it’s a precious family heirloom. “Although, where I come from, children learn manners. Or they eat in the kitchen.”

“We’ve been eating in the kitchen most of our lives, even Broderic,” Isidore says, slicing into her meat with unnecessary force.

“Well.” Laurel hesitates, glancing at Bishop and me like she’s suddenly remembering our presence. She clears her throat, extending her long neck, and simply looks past my sister as she says, “That will change now.”

I can see why Isidore wants to escape.

Nothing about this feels … normal. The tablecloth, the formal dinner, the rules.

I wait for Broderic to say something, but he doesn’t.

I can’t help myself. “Tables must be very quiet where you come from.”

Her gaze lands on mine, and her eyes narrow to daggers. “They are.” She shifts her focus to Bishop. “I’m sure it’s the same in Vennaro. The discipline, I mean.”

Bishop tears a roll in half without looking at her. “My brother and I once set a tablecloth on fire during a dinner party.” He shrugs. “So, I try not to judge.”

Andry beams from across the table. “I like him.”

Laurel turns the daggers on my younger brother, her fingers clenching her precious tablecloth. But Broderic clears his throat, and she settles into her seat.

I lean to their end of the table, as if getting closer might help me understand what in seven hells is going on with them. It’s not love, certainly, but I can’t tell which of them has the hook in the other.

Bishop’s hand settles on my thigh, calming me, as if he senses that I might say something I’ll really regret. I frown, sighing a bit under my breath. I lift my water goblet to my lips. But then his hand slips higher, shifting between my thighs, bunching the fabric of my skirt there so his hand can move even higher. Can distract me.

And I breathe in water instead of air. I splutter, eyes widening as I try to cough it from my lungs.

Every eye at the table, except his, swivels to me. Bishop removes his hand, biting back a smirk.