Page 45 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
“What have I been lying about?” I inquire. I’m curious to know what exactly he’s picked up on.
“Almost everything.” He leans forward, that ridiculous shirt dangling even further open until his silver chain swings out from beneath it. “But especially about your plans for your sister.”
I cross my arms. “Oh?”
“You don’t intend to let her take the favor.” He meets my gaze with a ruthless smile. “You’re going to take it for yourself.”
My mouth goes dry, and I wrap my arms tighter around myself. He’s got part of that right, at least. There’s no way I’m letting Ceridwen win immortality. I’m going to drag her kicking and screaming back to Llanadwen, where she belongs, with me. I won’t patronize you by pretending that I’m only concerned about her safety anymore. I want to punish my sister for keeping her secrets, for abandoning me. When I pull her out of Y Lle Tywyll,where she’s going to fail, I’ll be her hero. I want to hurt her as she’s hurt me, and I want to make her thank me for it.
But I’ll admit I still don’t know what I intend to do about my own favor.
“Fine.” I force a shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. “You caught me. I do plan on preventing her from taking immortality. I’m making her go home, but I don’t know what I plan to ask for when I win.”
“When,” he repeats with a grin. “I like that. You’re a spiteful, jealous thing, aren’t you. No plan for your own life, just a burning desire to ruin everyone else’s.”
I expect anger to bubble in my stomach, but it doesn’t. I laugh instead. He’s seen me clearly, I’ll give him that, but he can’t see in himself the horrible qualities that we share.
I give him a hard, ironic look. “You’re one to talk.”
We stare at each other in silence for a moment, Neirin’s browspulling together slowly. It drags on just long enough for me to think I’ve finally been rude enough to break him, until he throws his head back and laughs. He has a lovely laugh.
“There’s the real Habren.” He waves a hand in my direction. “Rude, jealous, vindictive—and all that directed at people she likes!”
“When did I ever say I like you?” I retort.
Neirin gestures to the bed. “Drop the whole morality act and sit here. I know that bench is uncomfortable, just like I know you couldn’t really care less what anyone thinks of you.”
That’s where he’s wrong. Unfortunately, I care a great deal. I haven’t always been like this, so aggressive and vile. When I was small, I was all smiles and utter desperation to be liked. But it never worked, and something about me, whatever it is, turned everyone away. After a while, I stopped trying—learned to revel in the discomfort my very presence seems to bring to a room, the way I jar every conversation, how I put people on edge. I tell myself I do it on purpose. I tell myself I’m proud of their distaste, but I think we all know that isn’t true. Everybody wants to be liked. Some people are just better at it than others.
In this room, though, there’s only me and Neirin—and Neirin seems to like me well enough. Maybe he has his own mercenary reasons for being in my company, but I so rarely get to talk easily with anyone who isn’t a part of my family.
From my window seat, he feels awfully far away.
With slow, deliberate movements, I rise from the bench. I stand in the no-man’s land between us for a moment, staring at him, daring him to make some sudden move that I can say scared me off. He doesn’t. He remains perfectly still save for the necklace swinging against his chest as he leans forward.
A storybook heroine is supposed to deny this sort of thing. It’s what makes her good and decent. While we’ve already established that I am generally neither of those things, if it makes you feel betterI can pretend that I put up a little more resistance, and that I didn’t sitfarcloser to him than necessary.
Arms and thighs brushing, I still refuse to look at him. I even cross my legs again, but I can’t ignore the bed, or how soft the pillow is, or how tall and warm Neirin feels at my side.
The window lets in a pale streak of moonlight that just misses the bed, casting both of us in darkness save for our socks.
“I think we might be rather alike,” Neirin says. “Despite our… vastly different circumstances.”
“That’s a polite way of calling me common.” I keep my eyes straight ahead, trained on the window. “How are we alike?”
Neirin laughs quietly. “We have a very similar temperament, though I can hide mine with manners. I even have a sibling—a brother.”
I stare out into the dark. “Older?”
“How can you tell?” he says, his voice smaller than I’ve ever heard it.
“You’re childish. A bit of a brat, really.”
“But you’re the younger sister, and you seem very old.”
“My sister has been ill; I had to grow up quickly. What’s your brother like?”
Neirin’s fingers furrow into the blankets, brushing against mine, between our hips. He makes no attempt to avoid me. When he shrugs, he can’t quite convince me that he doesn’t care about whatever he’s about to say.
