Page 128 of Harbinger

He rises and crosses to the stacks to put the book away as if the matter is already decided.

I curl my hands into fists at my sides. I’m sick of having truths measured out like I might choke if I swallow them too soon. “I just want to know why the Stars chose you and Bishop.”

And not Kieren.

“It’s never that simple,” he calls while searching through a shelf. He finds what he’s looking for and yanks it out. “The Stars don’t explain their choices. You know that. They chose a different order for you.”

“I wish they hadn’t.”

He returns and drops another book on the table. “That doesn’t matter. You still have to decide what to do about it.”

“I’m supposed to rewrite destiny?” Is that what Hadrian is trying to do here? Hide away with old books like he might stumble upon directions for taking back his life? “Pretend they didn’t mark me. Pretend …” My voice cracks. “… that that mark didn’t kill him.”

“No,” he says evenly, “you’re supposed to decide who you want to be.”

I stare at the cover, at the pegasus painted on the front. I push it away. “I’m not that girl anymore.”

Hadrian nods to the book. “That doesn’t erase her.”

“I’m not an Icaros.” I swallow. “It’s not my birthright.”

No thanks to the Stars.

“Then you’re a Ravenell, and by that right, all magic belongs to you.” He slides the book toward me. “So, what are you going to do with it?”

“Start a farm?” I say flatly.

“That’s up to you.” He wipes his glasses and sinks into his seat, already turning back to his notes and riddles like he’s done with me.

I want my family’s magic. Magic that helps things grow. Not whatever power my mark promises me. I want to know why the Stars chose me for this.

He’s been looking for answers for five hundred years. What hope do I have of finding any?

“The garden looks terrible,” he says, not glancing up from his papers. “Start there.”

I scowl at him, but I grab his stupid book.

When I reach the main hall, I don’t turn toward the stairs. I keep walking, past the back hall to the kitchen. I pass the great room, where a fire is crackling in the massive hearth. I ignore the untouched piano in the parlor. I don’t stop until I’m out the front door, not bothering to pause or consider where I’m going, my feet carrying me where my head and heart have not dared venture before now.

And this time when I reach the garden, I look at it. Really look at it.

Vines claw at one another in a frantic tangle, weaving and choking each other like enemies. There are piles of leaves, all so uneven they must have been gathered by the strong ocean winds and left to rot for Stars know how long. The fountain remains stagnant, filled with brackish water and slowly being reclaimed by moss. Dead trees loom at the edges of the grounds, their limbs twisted skyward, still waiting for someone who never came back.

What a fucking mess.

The oscen swoops overhead and lands in the gnarled branches of a very dead tree.

I glance at it. “I don’t know if I can fix this.”

And I’m talking to the bird again.

It tilts its ebony head, dipping its beak as though it’s commiserating with me.

But I head to the small potting shed tucked in the farthest corner. It’s in nearly as bad a shape as the rest of the garden. I try to open it, but the door hinges have rusted shut, so I’m forced to ram it open with my shoulder. There’s not much inside other than some old flower bulbs in a worn basket and a few hand tools as rusty as those hinges.

Screw this. Even an Icaros couldn’t work like this. I make it a few steps into the garden before the oscen squawks at me.

Like it knows I’m quitting.