Page 176 of Harbinger

“Absolutely not.” I scowl at her. “You aren’t lifting a finger.”

But she refuses to accept the drink. Before I can take a new tack, a chair scrapes loudly against the floor.

“Stars preserve us,” Lenora mutters as the man Bishop was talking to by the door hauls himself onto the chair and gestures for the crowd to quiet.

“Who is that?”

My question earns a disapproving huff from her. “Lord Perran.” She says the name like it tastes bad. Having just met his wife and daughter, I understand. “He’s first in line to be patron if Bishop doesn’t marry.”

The thought of this man’s family running the Bellatorum turns the food in my stomach to lead.

Lord Perran clinks a fork against his crystal goblet. “It’s time to Turn the Threshold,” he calls over the lingering whispers, and a hush falls through the crowd. His chin lifts as if he already hears applause, leaning into the attention like he’s been rehearsing for this moment. “It’s been an … interesting year. Let’s choose the right door this time.”

Laughter ripples through the crowd, and I don’t think I’m imagining that quite a few heads swivel toward me.

I don’t laugh.

If this year taught me anything, it’s the danger of thumbing my nose at tradition, of what can happen when you make the wrong decision for the right reasons.

I don’t know if I’m afraid of choosing wrong—or I’m just afraid of choosing him.

Perran gets his applause, glasses rising to toast with him, and I find myself looking for Bishop again. This time to see what he thinks of his cousin—to see if he finds him as insufferable as I do.

My fingers tighten on the stem of my glass, everyone around me swallowing their drinks. But I can’t find Bishop.

Maybe he changed his mind.

Maybe he forgot.

Maybe I need this drink after all. I lift my wine absently and take a single sip right before small hands latch on to Shea’s and my dresses.

“It’s time!” Breccan shouts, bouncing on his feet and knocking my goblet to the rug.

He’s clearly had one too many cookies. Or maybe ten too many, based on how excited he is.

I stare down at the wine seeping into the wool, heat creeping up my neck. “I guess that’s what I get for being distracted.”

I bend to collect it, but Lenora shoos me off to follow the crowd. “Go on. I’ve got it.”

Breccan clings to both our hands as we’re swept up in the tide of bodies surging toward the front entrance. Bells chime faintly as they’re lifted from hooks, cold air rushing through the hall as the doors open.

The night is clear enough to see every constellation, but the temperature has plunged to near freezing. Frost whitens the stone, and my breath blooms in pale clouds. The estate is lined with glowing lanterns, their light trembling across the sweeping staircase that leads to the walking path that winds around the grounds.

Breccan tugs us toward a group of older boys ringing bells far too close to one another’s ears.

But Shea stops him from running off and whispers to me, “Good luck.”

They vanish into the crowd spilling onto the lawn below, leaving me to face the Turning—and Bishop—alone.

And when the steps clear, he’s there. He’s not pacing. Not searching the giggling, frantic mass of people rushing to be the first to turn the new year at the threshold of the back door. He simply waits, one hand resting on the stone balustrade as he stares toward the black sea beyond.

This is my Threshold. Not the walk around the house. Or the door waiting on the other side. This.

I can turn around and return to the house. Maybe I should.

It’s probably easier than trying to go back to being friends, than telling him that I can’t risk more.

It would certainly hurt less.