Page 79 of Harbinger

“Auspicious?” I repeat, still staring at it, my heart sinking inch by inch. “An omen, you mean.”

She lifts her shoulders, shaking her head slightly. “Life is always sending us signs. We decide if they’re good or bad ones.”

I nod, only half listening. Lenora hums that melody I can’t place under her breath as she leaves the room, but I never look away from the bird.

I’m pretty sure the escaped pet of a dead king is following me—and there’s only one way to interpret that.

I continue to the kitchen with a half-eaten biscuit and a growing sense of dread.

Polishing it off in a few bites, I still don’t feel better. It’s hard to decide what’s worse—attending this upcoming party, actually getting a letter from back home, or the prospect of spending the day with Vessica, who always looks like she’s deciding which of my bones to snap first.

She’s already waiting by the kitchen fire, her mouth set in a grim line. “Ready?” she asks. “The sooner we go, the sooner we’re done.”

“What if we told Lenora no?” I suggest in a whisper, afraid she will overhear. She can’t be far. I don’t need a dress, and I doubt there’s a letter waiting already.

Vessica huffs as she snatches a scone from the prep table. “Never bite the hand that feeds you.”

It’s a testament to Lenora’s domestic authority that even Vessica doesn’t dare upset her.

Before I can concoct another plan to get out of this, Lenora swoops in with a coat and a pair of gloves. “You two will take the postern. I know Wolf’s Keep is only a few miles away, but it’s faster, and I don’t want you walking all the way there in this cold. Besides, yesterday someone tracked half the mud in Vennaro into the house with them.”

I’m suddenly very invested in my buttons. I hadn’t noticed my boots were muddy yesterday afternoon when I went out for a walk. Then again, apart from soldiers, mud is Vennaro’s primary commodity.

But Vessica blinks at the lecture. “Of course we will,” she says slowly, like she’s not certain why this is a discussion. “You know I hate wasting time.”

I bet the ice queen feels right at home traveling by postern.

“Use the one by the gate. It’s closer than the bridge,” Lenora says, herding us toward the back door.

Vessica strides through it without so much as a goodbye to Lenora, who’s too busy fussing with my coat collar to notice.

“Stay with her.” Lenora studies me for a moment before sighing. “And try to enjoy yourself. Just not too much.”

I don’t think there’s any danger of that, especially given my companion. I glance outside to Vessica. “She’s not exactly the outgoing type, is she?”

“Nope. But she’ll keep you safe. Bishop trusts her, and so do I.” Lenora grins and pushes me out the door.

A blast of wind nearly knocks me down as I step outside. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees overnight. It’s as if even the weather is eager for the upcoming holiday and putting on its wintery best in anticipation. I don’t care about dresses or parties, but at least visiting Wolf’s Keep will give me a chance to get out of the house and see some of the world.

The garden path is slick with dew and scattered leaves. Glancing back, I see Lenora watching from the door, arms folded, like she’s not sure we’ll come back in one piece.

“Let’s get this over with,” Vessica says, muttering a few choice words about the cold as she pulls her long wool coat tighter, and we start toward the back gate.

The postern is tucked behind a stand of half-withered evergreens currently under invasion by brambles. Only the top of the arch—etched with nochtimetric sigils—is visible through the overgrowth.

“Why couldn’t we use the one inside the house?” I ask when I see its condition.

Vessica frowns, draws her sword, and hacks some of the tangled mess away. “This is the closest postern.”

I should keep my mouth shut, but my jaw is practically a broken hinge. “Bishop and I entered directly into the great room the day we arrived.”

She pauses, her sword hovering in the air for a moment like she might turn it on me. I take a step away, remembering what Taliesin said about her stabbing him in the back.

“Not every postern is … approved,” she says carefully.

“Bishop mentioned that when we used his portable one. I don’t see why being unlicensed stops us from using the one in the house.”

“Of course he told you,” she says under her breath, as if she thinks he should have kept this a secret. “Only Bishop can use his family posterns. Just like only your family can use Icaros ones.”