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“Me too,” I tell her. And I mean it. I’m home too. It’s time for me to live, too.
She nods and I watch her eyelids flutter closed.
“Goodnight, sweet girl,” her grandmother says and, after giving her a kiss on the cheek, we walk out into the hallway, and I pull the bedroom door closed.
“You’re tired,” I say to my mother. It’s obvious. “You should be in bed.” Her hair’s growing in. Soft white wisps of it. And she’s got some color back since the treatments stopped. Finally.
She smiles. “I’m glad to be home and I’ll be fine.”
“Zeke?” I ask.
“Downstairs.”
I nod. “Goodnight,” I tell her, and hug her. She still feels frail even for the weight she’s put back on.
“It’s good you brought her home.” She draws back. “I hope you meant what you said to her.”
“I did. We’re here for good.” My voice comes out hard and she hears it. I see it in the crease between her eyebrows.
“Past is past, Jericho.”
“The dead will be avenged.” I turn and walk toward the stairs. This isn’t the first time we’re having this conversation and I’m tired of it.
“She wouldn’t have wanted that,” she calls out when I get to the stairs.
I stop, grit my teeth, jaw clenching. “Go to bed,” I say, although I want to say a hundred other things.
“Son,” she starts.
I shift my gaze to her. “It’s the only way to keep her safe,” I tell her, although it’s not my only reason. But it ends the conversation.
I walk down the stairs and toward my brother’s study to wait for Councilor Hildebrand and the rest of our guests.
3
Isabelle
“Where have you been?” Carlton asks. He’s standing just outside the entrance of the ballroom. He’s a half-brother, actually. That’s where the half comment came from earlier. I’m only half-Bishop. People can’t seem to let that go but for the wrong reasons if you ask me. I’m not sad to not be a full-blooded Bishop. The opposite. I’m sad I have any Bishop blood in me at all.
He forces a smile at a passerby, nods as if we’re having a normal conversation. I wonder if that smile hurts him. But appearances matter to Carlton.
“Freshening up after all the dancing,” I lie.
He looks me over, nods. “Good. You look a little wilted.”
“I’m tired. Can we go home?”
He glances over my shoulder, scans the crowd.
“You’ll go home after dinner.”
“I can’t dance anymore. My feet hurt.”
“It’s important we find you a suitable match.”
“Does it matter that I don’t want a suitable match? Or any match?”
“You know we need to do this. It’s for everyone’s benefit.”
