Page 78 of Harbinger

She places the tray on a small table by the hearth and pours a cup of coffee. “Bishop always hosts a party for his family and the conscripts.” She passes me the mug, adding, “It’s a tradition.”

Suspicion seeps into my chest, but I accept the bait. “I’m not a conscript.”

“No, you are the guest of honor.”

I stare at her, waiting for the punch line.

She doesn’t blink.

Guest of honor? This has to be her idea.

I set the cup down so quickly that coffee sloshes onto the saucer. “I doubt Bishop wants me there.”

His lengthy absence suggests as much. Although each day he’s away in the royal city renews hope that he’s close to catching the king’s killer, which might clear my name enough to prevent further assassination attempts.

A girl can dream.

But even if he does, I’ll still have the mark of Ravenell on my chest. Bishop told me I might be able to find answers here. But despite his claim, he hasn’t volunteered the forbidden book he took from the shop in Wintour—and I’ve been too chickenshit to call him on it.

I’d asked Lenora for books, afraid to trespass in Bishop’s obviously sacred library, but she’d brought mostly boring military histories about the Last War. Nothing about Order Ravenell. Not exactly a surprise. Those books and the dangerous magic in them were destroyed by the first king five hundred years ago. She only blinked when I asked her to check for a book about scions, like she’d never heard of them. The lack of answers, of anything solid to grab on to, has left me restless, especially because I don’t even know where to start looking.

Still, the last thing I want is to go to a party. My shoulders droop along with my mood. Twelvetide is meant to be spent with family.

But Lenora waves off my concern with a flick of her hand. “You’ll need a gown,” she says, completely ignoring my sputter of indignation. “More than one, honestly.”

“I don’t need—” I start to protest.

“You can’t wear borrowed clothing all the time,” she cuts in. “You need your own wardrobe, starting with a gown for the holiday.”

“I’m not sure I’ll even be here,” I mutter, but she’s not listening as she smears butter on an additional bribe.

“Wolf’s Keep has a dozen forges but only one seamstress.” She thrusts the biscuit into my hands. “She’s very good, but she’ll get busy soon. Even soldiers dress up for the holidays.”

That’s not a pointed statement at all.

But the thought of visiting a village where everyone is armed to the teeth is not my idea of a great morning. I slouch against the wall. “Can’t I just wear one of the old uniforms? They’re growing on me.”

Lenora actually laughs. “That’s Bishop’s solution to every problem—put on black and call it a day. You two are quite the pair.”

“We’re not … I mean …” I trip over my own tongue. “There’s no two. No pair.”

The man can barely stand to be in the same house as me, if his constant travel is any indication.

“Of course not.” She inclines her head, but her eyes sparkle. “That doesn’t change the fact that you need your own things.”

I glance down at my scrounged-up wardrobe. Nothing I’m wearing belongs to me. I’m living in borrowed spaces in borrowed clothes on borrowed time. The only thing that’s mine is the mark burned over my heart.

I wrap my arms around myself. “The last party I attended might as well have been my funeral.”

Lenora softens. It’s the first time I’ve mentioned the night of the Petition, though I’m sure she’s heard about it from others. “But it wasn’t, love.” She reaches over, smoothing my hair back. I wonder if she did that when Bishop was little—if he ever let her. But before her gentle touch can win me over, she’s back to business. “Finish up. Vessica’s waiting in the kitchen. You two can stop at the post to see if you’ve had any letters.”

Just like that, the conversation is over. Maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe Lenora is the one who taught Bishop how to give orders.

But she pauses in front of the window and gasps. “It can’t be.”

“What is it?” I jump to my feet. As soon as I look out to the garden, my knees nearly buckle when I spot the oscen roosting on the branch of an overgrown willow.

Lenora taps the glass, but the bird doesn’t budge. “I haven’t seen one since I was a girl.” She leans forward to get a better look. “How auspicious.”