Page 91 of Harbinger

“I’m not a visitor,” I mutter, but neither is listening.

“Do I need permission to access my own library?” Bishop asks, one eyebrow raised.

“You will if you bleed all over any more of the books.”

It had to be the night I overheard him in the kitchen with Taliesin.

“I’ll do better.” The promise comes out so stiffly, it takes me a moment to realize Bishop is being sincere.

“Next time, get the bandage,” I mutter.

Bishop’s gaze narrows on me, and I wish I could crawl under the table. But before I can lie my way out of the slipup, he says, “I’m leaving in ten minutes.”

Running away again? Surprise, surprise. “And where are you off to this time?”

“Bellatorum,” he says flatly. “You can come.”

I blink. He’s inviting me? “Is this a field trip, or am I being drafted?”

Or are you in the mood to torture both of us?

“Think of it as educational.” He chooses the word carefully.

I snort. “So, you’re planning to shove a sword in my hands?”

“Only if you want to train,” Bishop says with a shrug. “You mentioned that you wanted to go back.”

Something in my chest squeezes. He remembered.

“I do,” I say. “I need to take some writing supplies to Breccan. Paper and pens. He’s trying to learn his alphabet.”

Bishop nods. “Supplies are in my study. It’s the first door on the right. Try the top drawer in my desk. It’s unlocked now,” he says, and I realize he knows I tried to get into the western wing again.

Heat floods my cheeks. Fucking Stars, he probably thinks I was there to throw myself at him.

“Ten minutes,” he repeats, “or I’m leaving without you.”

It will take me five minutes just to get all the way to that side of the house. I race out of the library to his family’s wing.

I can’t stop myself from checking for the book I saw last night despite my hurry. But it’s nowhere to be found in the sitting room, so I continue down the hall.

His study is a surprise. I expected it to be cold and severe, all business, like the man who uses it, full of weapons and secret files. But while those are here—swords racked over the mantel, a trio of battered ledgers stacked on the window ledge, even a dagger stuck point-down into the desk itself—there are also signs of life. A half-eaten apple on a plate, a mug with a ring of coffee clinging to the bottom, a chessboard frozen mid-game.

Dialing on the desk lamp, I peek in the top drawer to find a stack of folders with some type of travel log on top. Dates. Locations. Short entries written in the same tight hand as the notes I saw last night. But there are no writing supplies. I reach for the stack as Bishop appears in the doorway. “Wrong drawer.”

Startled, I slam it shut and open the other to find a few notebooks, loose sheets of paper, pens, and ink. “Sorry.” I gather as much as I can carry. “I didn’t want you to leave without me.”

His mouth quirks. It’s not quite a smile but not a threat, either. “Ready?”

We’re halfway down the stairs when I realize what I saw in that not-quite-smile. Bishop was pleased—which irritates me more than it should. Apparently, I’m the only one who feels awkward about last night.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Hadrian?” I ask as we reach the landing.

He hesitates. “My uncle keeps to the library when he visits.”

My stomach drops at his lie. Hadrian told me he was a friend of the family. But I don’t call Bishop out. Obviously, he won’t tell me the truth. “He visits just for the books?”

“He’s helping me with some … research.” He shuffles us toward the great room. “We should take the postern.”