Page 95 of The Shadow Sanctum

Still, every day the air feels tighter. Eyes follow me longer. Voices hush when I walk past.

Fear doesn’t translate to respect. Aiden’s words echo like a curse I can’t shake. It only makes people whisper. I’ve seen it, felt it in every wary look cast my way. When Father dies (and he will soon enough. I watched him eat a scone with my own eyes), I won’t be the one they rally behind. They’ll need someone else.

Raven.

The thought comes as naturally as breathing, though it tastes sour in my mouth. She has their trust. She softens her edges, meets their eyes, listens when they speak. She’s everything I’m not, and I’ve been taught to see that as submission. Right now, it’s the only strength that matters.

I push the thought aside before it roots deeper.

The snow-packed path to the Keep crunches under my boots. The building looms ahead.

No one has seen Father since the money burned. He’s locked himself inside and left whispers to fill the void.

Some say he’s making a plan, and that may be true, but I suspect he’s hiding the illness he swears he’s too strong to have. He’ll be in bed while his body tries to fight off an infection he doesn’t yet know will kill him.

It’s lucky that I’m cold. There’s a small part of me grieving the man who raised me.

Mostly, I just need to see it for myself.

The door groans open under my hand. Inside, the Keep feels even more soured than the rest of the compound. Air stale with old secrets, walls pressing close with judgment. My footsteps echo too loud as I move down the corridor past silent rooms that even Seraphs have left empty.

I go to Father’s bedroom and angle my ear toward the door but hear nothing. No coughing. No wheezing.

I knock twice and count to ten before opening.

Empty.

My brow furrows as I shut the door. I check the study next.

Empty.

The library.

Empty.

My bedroom.

Empty.

For a minute, I just stare and try not to let my heart skip with thoughts it isn’t time to entertain.

What if he left?

It shouldn’t make any difference. He’s no help now, and he’ll be dead before he gets the chance to help another soul.

Letting out a sigh, I shut my bedroom door and head downstairs to check the kitchen. I don’t expect to find him there, so when hushed voices reach me from the dining area, I slow my steps.

When I stop in the entryway, I find myself squinting. Father is seated at the long wooden table, a bowl in front of him, steam curling from the surface. Raven sits at his side with neat posture and her hands folded in her lap.

I search Father for illness. A pale face. A red nose. Slumped posture. Half-hooded lids and a jaw without the strength to shut.

He looks better than I’ve seen him in months. His cheeks are flushed with health, eyes sharp and clear, voice carrying easily as he speaks low to Raven.

Not sick. Not weakened.

Healthy.

My nails bite into my palms as realization spreads cold through my veins. He’s already taken medicine. Forbidden medicine, not herbs or oil or incense.