Page 82 of Harbinger

She frowns. “You can thank me by keeping your head down next time and not wandering off.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, meaning it. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“You better start thinking,” she warns me. “You need to learn to use a sword before you go back to the village.”

I manage a nod, but there’s no way I’m returning to Wolf’s Keep. Even here, hundreds of miles from where the latest murder happened, people think I’m responsible. It won’t be safe to leave the estate until the killer is caught.

When Vessica finally looks at me, her eyes are bright. “Are you okay?”

“No,” I admit, then draw a long breath. “But I will be.”

No matter what it costs me.

SEVENTEEN

Arden,

Thank you for letting us know you arrived.

Your family is safe.

—Kieren

Two lines. Four if you count the pleasantries of writing out our names.

No “I miss you.” No “come home.” Not even a “don’t die.”

My body crumples onto the bed, the springs creaking under a weight suddenly too heavy to carry. I don’t know what I’d hoped to hear, but nothing wasn’t on the list.

Tears blur my vision, and I drag my forearm across my eyes before they can make it to my cheeks. Like that might erase the sting before it settles any deeper. I hadn’t expected Broderic to reply. He’s too stubborn. But Kieren?

We’ve spent nearly our whole lives together. We have our own language of shared looks and inside jokes. And now it’s reduced to two lines that feel as shallow and distant as strangers nodding to each other on the road.

I read it again. And again. Each time hoping the words might shift, soften, reveal something I missed the first dozen times through. They don’t. They just sit there, indifferent to the fresh wound they’ve carved into me.

I fold the note carefully this time, smoothing the crease with my thumb, like gentleness might coax something kinder from the message. I drop it on the bed next to the package, the contents of which are somehow even worse.

An old pair of shoes, a few worn shirts, my comb. A collection of things from a life that’s no longer mine. Thrown into a box. Whoever packed it didn’t even take the time to fold the clothes.

Lying back, I stare at the ceiling and let my feelings settle from numb to something else entirely. Not sadness. Not even anger. It’s the heavy, increasingly familiar ache of being dispensable.

I stay that way for a long time—until the light fades and shadows lengthen. Until I’m sure Lenora isn’t going to hunt me down and force me to the table for dinner. Until I convince myself that there’s no piece of my heart left to break.

Tucking the letter in my pocket, I go down to find something I can eat that will help put me back together.

It’s fine. It’s all fine. I don’t need anyone.

But I can’t shake the urge to burn the box and its depressing contents in the fireplace, just to see if that leaves a mark, too.

The great room’s chairs are empty, and the kitchen is deserted. There’s a plate of food waiting on the prep table, but, for once, I’m not hungry. Probably because the letter in my pocket feels like a splinter under my skin. The kind that only burrows deeper when you try to deal with it. I guess some pain even food can’t soothe.

So, I find the wine instead.

Prying out the cork, I pour wine into a chipped mug and drink it in one go. It burns all the way down, but the taste is dark and rich, almost sweet. I pour a second glass, then take the whole bottle and wander back into the hall.

I’ve just finished my second cup when I hear Lenora singing. “Run, gray wolf, the stars are falling …”

Her sad tune grows louder as she moves through the great room. “Oh lovers weep, war is calling.”