Page 145 of Harbinger

“You didn’t go to the baths.” There’s enough disappointment in his voice that I know exactly what his face is doing, but I glance at him anyway.

Actual daggers couldn’t be deadlier than his eyes right now.

“No, I didn’t.” I lift my chin to meet that disapproving glare. “I have a perfectly good working bath in my own room, thank you.”

“Dammit,” he growls, his eyes shuttering before he sighs. “Your muscles need the mineral water. If you would just—”

I hold up my hand. I am not doing this with him today. Or any day, for that matter.

“I’m really not up for justifying my bathing choices to you, Bishop,” I say, confident that will shut him up. “If you were hoping to see me naked, you missed your chance that night on your balcony.”

The stunned silence from Bishop almost makes enduring today worth it.

His eyes widen, his mouth moving as he fumbles for a second before he swallows whatever he was about to say. He stalks off, mumbling something that includes my name, “impossible,” and a few more choice expletives.

But I can’t stop myself from watching him leave, a new and unfamiliar ache stirring in my chest.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Over the next several days, I beat him to breakfast every morning. I keep my mouth shut. I earn answers. Enough that I’m starting to run out of questions. At least ones that I can bring myself to ask him.

I ask him about his order. Miradores. Taliesin and Vessica. The Bellatorum.

He keeps his answers shorter than I’d like, but after every muscle-numbing training activity, he keeps his promise.

I don’t ask about scions or harbingers. Or even Ravenell. Those questions sit heavy on my tongue … and stay there. Like asking them might cost me this training. I won’t risk that. Bishop was right. This is the only thing right now that makes me feel alive.

Based on the number of new ways he concocts to torture me, I’m certain that he still expects me to give up.

I don’t.

But grief has turned my body into a stranger. Every inch of me feels too tight. Too tense. Like everything in me is tangled into a single knot that I don’t know how to loosen. Training feels like the only way to pull it apart without screaming, but every day the knot is a little more snarled at the end.

He still hasn’t given me a sword. Nope. But today, he does let me stand on the astrolatory’s wall, one foot at a fucking time.

My boot slips slightly on a patch of moss, and my arms circle frantically to keep me from falling. “You do realize,” I say slowly through clenched teeth, “that if I go over the side of this, I’ll probably roll all the way to the Bellatorum.”

“It will be faster than walking.” He paces back and forth as if he’s as bored with this particular drill as I am.

“What exactly is this teaching me?” Trembles roll through my thigh, growing more pronounced until I’m forced to switch to my other leg.

Bishop’s eyes narrow. “Is that the question you’re earning right now?”

“Shove your questions up your …” I grumble under my breath.

“What’s that?” he calls, and I hear a smile in his voice.

“That’s not my question,” I say more loudly. “Just seeking to understand your wisdom.” I drop my voice and add, “Jackass.”

He actually laughs at this. But instead of answering, he crosses to the long pack he brought with us this morning. My eyes flicker over, trying to see what he’s getting out, but I can’t really look without risking my balance, so when he reappears and holds something up, surprise swells in my chest before it crashes.

It’s a sword—a wooden one.

“Is that a toy?” I’m beyond caring if he counts that as a question.

“You wanted a sword,” he says, holding it higher.

“What is a wooden sword supposed to teach me?” But I carefully lower my foot and plant it over the other’s toe. I take it from him, just managing to hold my position on the wall.