“An inheritance.”
“No. An inheritance comes from the dead. This came from the people who killed her.”
Quill let the accusation sit between us.
He did not deny it.
“Careful.”
“With what?”
“Accusations matter only when they can survive being written down.”
“Would you like me to write it down?”
“I would like you to understand the difference between knowing a thing and proving it.”
My Mark moved a third time.
Inward.
The lines drew tight on my wrist, four bright refusals going nowhere together.
Quill’s gaze dropped to it.
“Don’t,” I said.
His eyes returned to my face.
For one second, the mildness slipped.
Then he smiled.
He pushed the case toward me.
“Take it, Astra.”
I didn’t want anything from his hand. I didn’t want to take a thing he had turned into leverage. I didn’t want him to learn that there was still a place in me soft enough for this to work.
But my mother was dead, and the brooch was hers, and I couldn’t help wanting it.
My palm was damp when I reached for the case.
It was smooth and cold. Someone had brought it here for this meeting. Someone had carried my mother’s brooch through the building and placed it in Quill’s drawer so he could set it between us like a bone.
I took the case.
“At the formal,” Quill said, “the Council expects a stable bond.”
Stable.
One line.
One answer.
One approved bond.
My wrist pulsed under my sleeve.
