Page 61 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

“Her…friends?” The Father is studiously casual, echoed by Rannoch.

“Her friends call herWren? Do they.” It’s a flat statement, leaving no room for an answer, and there is a pit of fear like viper’s fangs in my stomach.

Kaden clearly knows he misstepped, but not how, and shrugs, just as deceptively relaxed as the others. “I am her friend, and that's what I call her.”

No one has moved, standing in an odd sort of triangle — Kaden by my side, Rannoch at one point, and the Father at the other.

Tilting his head, the Father looks between us, humming almost silently, the sound low and dark from his lips. He waits for a beat, then turns to lock eyes with me, and, without looking away, addresses the Trader.

“You are free to go.”

“But—”

“There is a woman in the village — Isabel — who will be happy to show you whatever you would like to see. She has been told to look for you. You should not keep her waiting,” he offers lazily. “You’ll be the envy of many, many men. Isabel is as pure water to the people in this village. A fine companion. And can show you more interesting things than the cisterns.” He has been looking in my eyes too long now. I’m desperately trying to focus somewhere distant over hisshoulder, but will not last long; the demand in his gaze is as strong as the pull of Everfire.

“Flame—” Kaden is waiting for me to say something. He thinks Icansay something. He is luring, trying to get me to come to him. “Wren…”

“Her name is not for your mouth. Any version of it.” The anger is a serpent’s bite. I do not know why. “Go! You’re not needed here.”

There is a pause, longer than I would have thought possible, and I start to turn to look at Kaden before the Father reaches out and grabs my chin in his hand, locking my head in place.

“Uh-uh-uh, Keeper.” The words are odd, almost affectionate, but hold the note of command I am used to obeying, and I wilt, staying silent.

Kaden makes a small, thoughtful sound, not angry or frustrated, just…considering…if I had to guess. Taking a deep breath, he nods, clearly choosing to concede to the Father for the moment, and smooths his face back into an affable masque, though he smiles with less mirth and more fang than before. Ignoring the others, he steps beside me, shoulder to shoulder with the Father who still holds my chin in a gentle grip belying the fierce expression on his face. I was wrong in my initial guess - they are close enough in height to bother the Father, the twitch of a flickering muscle in his jaw the only sign of discomfort, but from the normally taciturn man it’s equivalent to a scream.

Eyes soft now, Kaden takes my hand, pulling my gaze to him even against the weight of the Father’s fingers. Voice low, a hearthside whisper, he offers something halfway between a caution and a promise. “I’ll see you soon, Flame. Before the night ends.” The dark rasp of warning from Rannoch and the Fathers’s throats does nothing but pull a bright counterpoint of laughter from Kaden, who winks at me in unexpected amusement, then squeezes my hand, and walks away.

“The hell he will.” The Father’s words are growled, not spoken, his hand sliding from my chin to encircle my throat; suddenly my heart is beating like a wild rabbit caught in a hunter’s snare. He steps into me,bending me back like a reed in the wind, his lips so close to mine our breath is shared, that I would swear before the Earth and Sky for the briefest of seconds I felt the feather-light touch of his mouth on mine, though it is an impossible thought. Kaden is gone, the clearing is silent, but he is stone, unmoving. There is not enough space between us to inhale without the heat from his body flooding my tongue, so my chest is rising and falling in short, shallow pants, but still he doesn’t release me. It is not until Rannoch leans forward, a strange, barely restrained violence in the movement, that the disquieting moment is broken.

“Silas?” Rannoch is confused, oddly angry, and the Father immediately releases me, almost pushing me from him.

“What…” my hand drifts to my mouth. “Sir–”

“Don’t call me that,” he commands, lips curled up in unexpected disgust. “Especially not now. You have my name. Use it.”

THE FATHER

WREN

The words are rolling thunder from the mountains.

“I’m sorry…” I stutter in response. “Call you…call youwhat?”

“Silas. You know my name,Wren. Your father is the one who named it and saddled me with this…honor.” His tone is acidic, like the winter rains, and I shiver, pulling the cold of the bones around me to shore up my courage, to strengthen my spine.

“You knowmyname,Sir,” I snap back, a maelstrom of anger replacing the rare joy from my odd time with Kaden. “I am Keeper, or BoneKeeper, or, if youmust, Ceridwen. No other. And your resentment is misplaced asIdidn’t choose you. The bones did. I’ll pass along your thanks, however.”

“ButWrento your friends, Keeper?” He ignores my reply as Rannoch steps up beside Silas, just as storm-ridden, and the two exchange a long, dark look. “Whatfriendsdo you have here,Wren?” Something curls through his voice like smoke.

“Why would you think I have none?” I hedge, and they look at each other again.

“Who are your friends.” It is not a question, it is a demand, and forsome reason it makes me want to cry, cry rivers and valleys until I have emptied myself of all the water in my body.

Running my hands along the walls, I press my face into them, turning away from the men, and the bones whisper soft words of comfort to me.

There’s a pause, and then the Father’s voice, this time softer, the fury drained from it. “The bones. Of course. Ofcourse.” He is almost gentle now. “Did you tell the Trader that the bones call you that?”

Shaking my head, I press my lips together in a tight line. “No. Just that my friends do.” It’s no use fighting, or playing word games. “What does it matter, Sir?”

---