“Yes,” I reply, eyes locked down on the feathers of my stolen coat, my ribbons wrapped around me, keeping me together.
“Because you needed me to.”
I bristle at the conceit of that, as if he knows me so well. “You have no idea what I need,” I reply evenly, raising my eyes to look at him. “You’re doing this foryou. I just can’t figure out why.”
“I admit, I am getting some personal satisfaction from it,” Rip says without remorse.
“Is this still about Midas?” I ask, because I want to understand. I need to get a grasp on Rip’s mind, his motivation.
He rolls his eyes. “Must we talk about him?”
“Why do you hate him so much?”
His gaze goes cold. “The real question is, why don’tyouhate him?”
I refuse to be baited. “Is it just because your king is his enemy, or is it something more personal?”
“King Ravinger has every right to wage war on Midas. But I’ll lead the fight gladly,” Rip says, grabbing his tunic from the snow and pulling it over his head.
“Why? What’s Midas ever done to you?” I press. “He’s a good king.”
Rip scoffs as he tugs on his black jerkin, securing the leather straps across his chest. “Oh, yes, King Midas with his famous golden touch, loved by all.” He gives me a dry look. “Funny how his kingdom is rife with poverty, when he could simply touch a rock and save his people from cold and starvation. What agreatking he is.”
My stomach churns, the bitter taste of acid coating the back of my tongue. I open my mouth to defend Midas, to argue, but no words come out.
Because...Rip’s right.
I saw it with my own eyes when I left Highbell. The ramshackle shanties crumbling to pieces in the shadow of the castle, his people as thin as the rags they wear.
Rip can probably tell from my face that I have no defense, but surprisingly, he doesn’t rub it in. “You can see why I’d like to take him down a notch. Though I suspect my king has other plans.”
My ears perk at that. “What do you mean?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing for you to know.”
Frustration narrows my gaze. “What happened to tell a truth for a truth?”
“I’ve told you one from me. The truths of King Ravinger aren’t part of the game.”
“How convenient for you.” I look away at the weak smoke spilling from the logs still steaming in the snow. “Osrik and the others—did they see? Did they hear what I said?” I ask, not wanting to look at him.
“Yes.”
I close my eyes, squeezing, squeezing—ribbons as tight as my lids. “You’re ruining me,” I whisper, cold air brushing against my face like a sorrowful kiss.
I don’t hear him come closer, but I feel it. How could I not? There’s something in him that keeps pressing against my skin, keeps demanding my every sense to awaken.
“Sometimes,” he murmurs, “things need first to be ruined in order to then be remade.”
A heartbeat pulses in that peeking star.
It takes a long moment for me to open my eyes, to take a steadying breath. “I want to see the guards.”
Just as I knew he would be, he’s so close that if I leaned in a few inches, I could press my ear to his chest.
Rip tips his chin. “Alright, Goldfinch. I’ll take you to see the guards.”
He leads me out of the circle, footsteps pressed into snow like a pockmarked ground.
