Page 36 of The Poison Daughter
My father holds out his hands to brace against my frustration. “I’m not trying to patronize you. I need to know you’ll get your mother out. It’s just the first time we have been away from home since the attack.”
“It won’t come to that, but if it does, I will get her out,” I say. “I can’t say I’m rested, and being here makes me feel nauseous, but I’m fine.”
My father’s eyes narrow on me as he leans back in his chair. “Just stay ahead of it.”
He says it as if I haven’t spent the last ten years living in hypervigilance every moment of every day. I know I have to forgive them for over-parenting me. It’s only like this because Holly is gone.
“And don’t let your mother see you all moony-eyed over that girl.”
I wave a hand. “I’m not moony-eyed over her. I’m just trying to assess the best entry point. She was not impressed with my conversation in the garden.”
“What did you talk about?”
I can’t exactly say that we talked about her trying to kill me, so I improvise. “The Divine.”
My father laughs. “Is she devout?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t get that impression, no. But it came up, along with the fact that the rebels are gaining popularity.”
My father leans forward, resting his chin in his folded hands. “That confirms what we’ve heard, which should make it even easier for us.”
“I know you trusted me with a new contact this morning, but it would help if you would put me in touch with whoever has been sending you those doves with coded messages?—”
My father holds up a hand to silence me. “I let you meet with that new contact this morning. As far as established relationships go, the less you know right now, the better. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but lines get blurred where pretty women are involved, and you can’t share what you don’t know. We have compartmentalized our knowledge for a reason. I was worried she had a manipulation blessing and would be able to crack you easily, but now I’m worried that she’ll be able to get it out of you without any magic at all.”
I know it’s a wise strategy, but I loathe being treated like a child who can’t keep a secret. Logically, I know that’s not what he’s doing, but I can’t help feeling like he would have told Holly everything if she were here.
“I know what’s at stake,” I say firmly.
“You need to be careful. There is so much more happening here. I know your temper burns hot, but you can’t let it get the best of you. We need to be impeccable and efficient while we’re here.”
I know my parents can’t help themselves. The worry is a reflex now that all their hope rests on me. If I can just do this one thing, maybe I canfinally bring my parents and my people some peace. Maybe I can find it myself. Years of restless fear have worn me down. I don’t think I could bear to show my face at Mountain Haven if I fail.
Much as I hate it, I’m a bit at a loss when it comes to Harlow. I know how to charm a woman, but I have no idea how to tame a viper.
“What did she say about the rebels?” my father asks.
I run a hand through my hair. “She shut me out immediately when I mentioned Rochelli.”
A wrinkle forms in his brow, but he says nothing else. He’s done sharing.
I stand. “I’m supposed to meet Bryce and Carter to scout the city gates.”
He nods and runs a hand through his graying hair. “Be safe and subtle.”
I nod and duck out into the blustery afternoon.
The messenger doves flop around on the ground, cooing incessantly, their wings spread and bodies bent at unnatural angles as they press against the bars of their cage.
“What are they doing?” I ask. “They look—hurt.”
My best friend, Carter, leans against the stone wall beside their large cage and grins. “The Dove Keeper told me that they do it because they saw a wounded dove get a treat, and now they all think if they act wounded, they will get an extra feeding.”
The Dove Keeper descends the stairs beside us and looks at Carter. “Message sent.”
Carter nods and hands him a few coins. “Thank you.” He takes a deep breath and tips his face up toward the sky. The movement reveals the clean-shaven brown skin of his neck, and the top of a shiny, jagged scar at the base of his throat that peeks out of his collar.
I’ve turned over the memory of how he got that mark—of how I got the many that litter my body—so many times, but the guilt that accompanies it never lessens.
