My heart stutters, then slams against my ribs. I turn to face him and find his eyes honed on me. I shake my head.
"Do you have one?"
I swallow. "Would it matter if I did?"
He tilts his head slightly. "What an interesting way to phrase a question."
A shiver traces down my spine. It takes me a moment to find my voice. "I don't have anyone." I hold his gaze. "Do you?"
Amusement flickers through the bond, threaded with something that feels almost like loneliness. He shakes his head slowly. "No."
The word hangs between us, heavy with everything neither of us is saying. I should go. I need to go. Mother won't wait forever, and I have questions that need answers. But for a long, suspended moment, I can't make myself move. Finally, I muttera goodbye and slip out the door before I can do something foolish. Like stay.
I knock three times on Mother's office door, then enter before she can tell me to wait. The sight of her stops me short. She's wearing maroon tonight, a low-cut gown that makes her look less like a Sage and more like the aristocrats who ruled before the treaty. After weeks of seeing her in Veritas green, the change is almost jarring.
Her eyes flash silver as she looks up from the papers on her desk. When she notices it’s me, they fade back to brown, though the warning in them doesn't. My gaze drifts to the portrait behind her of a woman in crimson, face buried in a book, enclosed within a bubble, within another bubble, within another still.
Freida painted it years ago and hung it while Mother was away. I still remember the fury in Mother's voice when she discovered it. And yet, she never took it down. I've always wondered what that means. Whether it's a reminder of something she wants to remember, or something she refuses to forget.
"Close the door."
I do, then cross the room and stop on the opposite side of her desk. A supplicant's position. You’d think I’d be used to it by now considering how often I’ve stood here over the years, but I hate it. I hate that every time I stand before her I feel like a scared little girl. Mother likes to say she’s respected, not feared, by the residents in Veritas, but I don’t think she can differentiate the two.
"Sit."
"No, thank you." I clasp my hands in front of me to keep them from shaking. "Where is Jordi?"
She sets down her pen with the same deliberate calm she uses for everything, the calm that says she has all the time in the world and you have none.
"You know how I feel about stupid questions."
"And you know how I feel about being lied to." I hold her gaze even as her eyes flash silver, even as every instinct screams at me to look away, to bow, to apologize. I swallow and force my shoulders back. "Did you know they were going to take him?"
"I knew they would want to question him."
"And you allowed it?"
Something flickers across her face, too fast to read. "Jordan is exactly where he needs to be."
"Did you know they took him in manacles?" My voice rises despite my efforts to control it. "That's a violation of the treaty. They sent silent guards, not legion, not anyone the Order could recognize. They did it while the city was distracted. That's not questioning, that's an abduction."
"The treaty," she says, folding her hands on the desk, "is more nuanced than you understand."
My sigil flares, heat spreading across my chest like a brand. I breathe through it. Shove the anger down the way she taught me, the way all Veritas women are taught.
"When will he come home?"
"When it's time."
"What does that mean?"
"It means your brother is safe." Her voice is perfectly even. Perfectly controlled. "The situation is being handled. That is all you need to know."
I close my eyes. Breathe. When I open them, she's already returned to her papers, as if the matter is settled. As if I've been dismissed.
"Fine." I keep my voice steady through sheer force of will. "Then tell me about the laborers. Why are they dying the way they are? Why are they remembering things they traded away?"
Her jaw tightens. The movement is subtle, barely there, but I've spent my whole life learning to read her.
