“Did Mirial talk to any of the senators while she was here?” I ask.
“Not that I saw.”
An unhelpful response, but at least it’s true. I’m missing something, though. This doesn’t add up, and when that happens, the reason is always a lack of truth.
“The last senator I saw her talk to was Verhardt on the day of the Revelry,” Zel adds.
I will myself to not react, but her statement knocks the air from my chest. This feels enormous, like it would explain everything. “Where was that?”
“Well, it was strange, really. I was coming back from the market with my mom, and I looked down Demeter Alley and I saw Mirial and Verhardt talking together. But when I stopped and looked again, they were gone.”
Neither the Senate Leader nor the priestess would have had any business being on the fisherman’s wharf by the Tiger River. Zel happened to see a clandestine meeting.
“Did you ask Mirial about that?” I ask.
Zel shakes her head. “No. I thought I was just seeing things, but now…I’m not sure.”
“Stay here,” I say. “And lock the door.”
I take the key and rush out of the divining room. I have to hope that Mirial is still alive to tell me what she was doing here and why she secretly met with Verhardt on the day he died.
L.
Kerasea
Just as I reach the third floor, someone grabs me. My heart leaps, but I suppress a scream because I know it’s Torren just from his scent. Still…he has a dagger at my throat.
He immediately releases me and breathes out a frustrated sigh.
“Son of a jackal, Kerasea. Is it so hard to follow a simple instruction?”
Anger oozes from his voice, but he lets the dagger drop to his side. As he does, his hand shakes slightly.
“I had to check on Zel after I heard that scream,” I say.
The second I say the word “scream,” he looks away.
He exhales. “Very well.”
That wasn’t the reaction I expected. I stare at him, but he doesn’t meet my eye. What was that? Guilt? Sadness?
The edges of his eyebrows rise, and the set of his mouth is so grave, so different from when I saw him last. I think I already know the reason—I just hope I’m wrong.
“I need to speak with you,” he says.
I swallow hard but nod. He gestures down the hall, and we walk to my bedroom. I hold my breath and have to remember to release it as we head inside.
When he shuts the door behind us, he’s slow to turn.
Finally, he does.
There’s deep conflict scrawled on his face—whatever this is, he doesn’t want to say it, but he has to. I’ve seen this exact look many times at the temple when someone is about to confess something terrible. I brace myself, tightening my stomach and squaring my shoulders.
“Kerasea, take a seat, please,” he says.
I remain standing, staring at him, but reluctantly I back up until I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. I hold on to the bedpost with my hand.
“There is no easy way for you to hear what I’m about to say,” he starts. “So I will just speak plainly.”
