Page 65 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

You can taste memories? What other secrets have you been keeping from me?

Shrugging, I don’t answer him, but he asks again, a teasing warning clear in his voice.

Little Keeper, I’m surprised at you. Can you taste memories? What else are you not telling me?

I want to answer, but it is hard to concentrate with Silas and Rannoch staring, unflinching, with Silas’s mother still speaking, with Lorcan poised and waiting on my back. Layers and layers of sound and expectation and demand, and I am suddenly overwhelmed. Beyond overwhelmed really.

“Aren’t there places for you to be?” I ask, passing the femur back to Silas with careful hands and a quiet thank you for her time and stories.

Silas sighs, staring down at the bone in his hand, then nods once, more a quick jerk of his head than anything else. “Rann?” The affection in his voice is clear; I’m being let into a private moment, but purposefully. I’m beginning to wonder if there isanything Silas does that is without meaning. “We have to ready the feast tonight. Nickolas and his few need to be distracted with tasks, kept as far from the Traders as possible. Away from the silos as well. We can’t risk anything going wrong. Their wagons don’t have enough, but anything is better than what we have now.” Scrubbing a tired hand across his face, he turns back to me, dark eyes indecipherable. “Our time together isn’t done, BoneKeeper, only delayed.” It’s a clear warning, but doesn’t carry a threat. More of a lingering promise, and though I don’t understand it, something in his tone sends cool shivers over my skin.

Too much today has been the unknown, and it seems safest to slip back into the masque where I am most comfortable, where my face is a still pool, a mirror of the outside world and nothing more. Breathing in deeply, I inhale the cold bone around me and school my body back to its center.

“Whenever you ask, Father. Of course I am, as always, ready at the call of the Council.”

I am placid, calm — the perfect BoneKeeper. And it infuriates him and Rannoch both, which oddly delights me, though I keep the little flicker of smug happiness locked deep inside.

Rannoch’s mouth presses into a thin line, brow furrowed in obvious suspicion at my ready acquiescence, and he moves in front of me, sinking to his heels. Silas mimics him, the two men penning me in my chair between their overly warm bodies. “Wren,” Rannoch begins, holding up his hand in anticipation of my protest. “I won’t call you Ceridwen when you clearly hate it, and I’m tired of calling you nothing but BoneKeeper. A title is not a name. So if your bone friends call you Wren, then I’ll do it too, and you’ll just have to accept my friendship.” I bite my tongue, and it’s enough that he continues, ticking points off on his fingers. “The Blood Tree has been destroyed. You’ve accused Councilmen of murder.Murder. Your house has been ransacked, your bones desecrated.”

Silas makes a pained sort of choking sound, and Rannoch lays a comforting hand on his shoulder before continuing. “You’ve refused to read for the Council. And?—”

“Andyou’ve been poisoned,” Silas mutters.

Rannoch nods, echoing him. “Andyou’ve been poisoned. And we can’t deal withanyof it right now because the Traders are here for the first time in near memory, and we’re desperate for this trade. Desperate, Wren.”

Silas breaks in, taking over. “So for tonight, just tonight, please. Stop fighting us. Stay somewhere safe. Don’t risk anything. We’re trying to get our feet under us but the ground keeps shifting so quickly we’re being swallowed.Please. Just for a night, return to who you were a month ago and once the trade is complete, we’ll figure this out. But there’s too much.” He tries to sound reasonable, but it comes out as all his words do, commanding and firm.

“Of course,” I reply quietly, demurely, eyes wide and clear. They exchange an uneasy look, and Rannoch shakes his head.

“We’re serious, Wren.”

“Yes, Councilor. I’ll take your advice to heart.” There is nothing in my voice to infuriate them, but Rannoch almost growls, and I can feel Lorcan rolling his eyes on my back.

Little Keeper. Stop poking the bears. You’re incorrigible.

I have to fight to keep a smile from my face at Lorcan’s exasperation. Nothing amuses me more than annoying my somber Protector.

Silas continued talking while I listened to Lorcan, and I catch only the end of his instructions. “Take her home the back way, Rannoch, then meet me at the Trader’s camp. Keeper — just…don’t burn anything, or break anything, or kill anyone. For the space of the Trade. Just the space of three days.”

With that, he leaves, Rannoch watching after him with concerned eyes before turning back to me and offering his hand.

“Alright, Wren. Home with you, I suppose.”

Home.

The word slices me, unexpectedly sharp for some reason. So casually said, as though it were a place I should know.

Home.

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep my face empty, and am trying desperately to breathe through the abrupt stabbing in my chest, when Lorcan’s bones brush my skin under my cloak, soft as a bird’s wing, and the pain is gone in a heartbeat.

Let’s go home, Little Keeperhe whispers, and I can feel him dancing down my spine.

Home.

BELONGING

TAHRIK

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