The poison daughter

15HARLOW

The unfortunate thing about madness is that the more I think about it, the more paranoid I feel, and the less certain I am of my own sanity.

My father’s words are fresh in my mind, as is the vision of Able thrashing in his bed. But even between the two of them, I ca

Then again, so is Able in public. If I had not seen what happened last night with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it.

I walk down a dark hallway in Havenwood House, ignoring the quiet click of Gaven’s boots on the wood floors several paces behind me. For once, he’s not judging me for exploring. He must be as desperate as I am to get the lay of the land. The hallway to our left is dimly lit by candles and gray light coming in the windows.

“What’s down there?”

“A library and a solarium,” Gaven says.

I look down the hallway to my right.

“A private ritual room and some sort of temple to Ke

I start down the right hallway. There’s a startling lack of guards. No one is watching as far as I can tell, and there’s not an aura in sight but my own. I thought security here would be tight, but it’s lax.

“What do you make of it? The scar in the wall? The bustling city?” I ask.

Gaven speeds up so he’s walking beside me. “I’ve seen some things in my day, but never a horde which could take down the mighty wall of Mountain Haven.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I think that someone helped things along.”

I stop and turn to look at Gaven head-on. “You mean someone on the inside helped the Drained?”

“Their claws meet our walls daily and the city walls are made of the same stone. They have scrambled over or broken the gates, or tricked guards at the gates. But they have never once managed to break through the wall, no matter how frantic and furious their thirst is. I find it hard to believe that they bothered for a much smaller prize than they’d find in the city.”

“There are a lot of people here. Perhaps the Drained are smarter than we thought. Perhaps they’ve learned enough to know that the Haven was not as well-armed. Maybe they thought it was an easier target,” I say.

Gaven shakes his head, glancing down the hall, and I can read it on his face. Between the scar in the wall and what Kellan told us, it’s starting to look more and more like there’s merit to the theory that someone helped the Drained get in. Now I just need to figure out if it was actually my family or if there was someone else with just as much to gain in bringing them down and making my father look bad. Someone like Rochelli or Rafe Mattingly…if they’re not one and the same.

We walk past the meeting room doors and round the corner toward the temple and ritual room, only to find Henry leaning against the wall.

“There she is. My lovely wife-to-be.”

I scowl at him. “You said I could explore.”

“I said I would escort you on a tour.”

I wave a hand at Gaven. “I have an escort.”

Henry holds out an arm. I reluctantly take it and let him usher me down the hall. He turns to look over his shoulder at Gaven. “We don’t need your services.”

“My services aren’t optional. Miss Carrenwell is under my protection,” Gaven says.

“As she is under mine,” Henry says smoothly. “It would not be in my best interest for anything to happen to her now.”

Gaven and I lock eyes, and I know he’s focused on the same word I am. Now. Meaning that my safety is linked to how useful I am to Henry. I knew that was the case already, but it’s nice to hear him admit it.

“You can go, Gaven.” I raise a brow and hope he reads the subtext: go spy elsewhere.

Henry waits for Gaven to round the corner before he begins down the hallway in the opposite direction. “Let’s start outside. You look like you could use some air.”

He ushers me around another corner, and it strikes me how labyrinthine this manor is. I retrace my steps in my mind as a servant appears from a doorway at the end of the hall, holding my cloak.

Henry helps me into it. The wolf design on the shoulder that had been shredded by the claws of a Drained has been neatly stitched into elaborate golden embroidery. I trace my fingers over the thread, and it’s only as I draw it out that I recognize it as the sigil of Harvain.

“I can’t wear this outside,” I say in a hushed whisper. “Why is this emblazoned with the sigil of the Divine of Fortune? If I wear this, people will assume my gift is from Harvain.”

“And what if they do?” he taunts.

I cross my arms. “It should be my choice to tell them. Not yours.”

“And if I decide it’s not?”

My blood boils as I glare at him. “Then you’ll be asked to reconsider.”

He holds my gaze in challenge for a long moment. “It’s fun to rile you up.” He points to his coat collar, where the same golden sigil is embroidered. “We all wear the sigil of Harvain for luck. You’ll notice it on all of the Haven guards, and since you’re to be my wife, you’ll wear one like I do.”

I glare at him, incredulous. “Will you also be selecting my clothing for the day? Setting out undergarments that you prefer?”

His mouth tips into a wolfish smile. “I’d love to.” When I don’t smile, he shakes his head and sighs. “It’s just another way to signal to everyone who you are and it’s considered a sign of acceptance. Also, our people consider surviving a Drained attack in the open to be a sign that you’re blessed by Harvain, so you’ve earned it.”

I look at the other sigils beside the one for Harvain. “What do those mean?”

“This one with the rose and the thorns is for Ke

Henry registers my shock before I can hide it.

“You’ll find it’s not nearly as taboo to honor the Divine of Endings here. He is one of our patrons, and it’s by his grace that we have risen from the ashes of this ruined fort,” he says.

“It’s not that. It’s just—” I hesitate. I don’t trust him, but this is an opportunity to rattle him and see if he is truly co

He frowns. “Interesting.”

I wait for him to say more, but he just straightens his collar and nods at my shoulder.

“How are your injuries?”

“Good as new.” I don’t know why he pretends to care.

He crosses his arms. “If you say so. Where should we start? In town? At the armory? The garden? The art gallery?”

I glance over my shoulder, down the hallway. “You have an art gallery?”

Henry balks. “Of course we do. All cultures need art. Creativity is vital.”

He hardly strikes me as a soulful artist, but his face betrays no humor. He runs a hand through his hair and it falls right into place. Henry is truly obnoxious in his perfection.

He holds out his elbow for me to take. “So, where to?”

“The armory.”

He lets out something between a laugh and a sigh. “Why am I not surprised? Hope you’re not gearing up for a murder spree here in my home.”

I thread my arm through his, and he leads me toward a door at the end of the hall.

“Why all the murder?” he asks as he presses the door open.

“We all need a hobby.”

He sighs. “You’re really not going to tell me?”

“I’m really not. Feel free to take that as a sign to stop asking.”

We step into the bright gray morning. I squint as my eyes adjust. He leads me through the mansion courtyard. It’s so unlike the tidy yards and patio at home. While Carrenwell House is all sharp, clean stone and tidy planters full of flowers, Havenwood House is all mossy stone and wild ivy twisting up the walls. Deep, bloody-looking flowers bloom in clumps through the cracks in the walls and up through gaps in the cobblestones, and the iron gate is tangled with some sort of spiky, deep purple flowering vine that is still in bloom despite the turn of the season and the frigid mountain air.

Somehow, it doesn’t look messy. It looks beautiful in a harsh sort of way, as if everything about this place is a monument to things that thrive in a brutal environment. I suppose I’ll blend in just fine.

We pass through the gate and turn right, taking a wide stone path down. Havenwood House perches on the sixth and highest level of the fort, with five other levels unfurling below it. I watch the distant bluster of town as we walk. Several men in guard uniforms pass us as we follow the winding path. Most of them have their sigils prominently placed across their chest, but there are a few who take Henry’s more subtle approach.

“What does it take to become a guard?” I ask.

“Why? Thinking about trying to pass the test?”

I blow out an exasperated breath. “Give me a break, Henry. Not every question is a weapon. I’m in a strange place with a culture I don’t understand. I’m trying to acclimate to my new life.”

He grimaces. “Sorry. You’re right. To pass the test, you have to survive a week alone out past the wall.”

“A week!” I stop, pulling my arm free from him. “In the Drained Wood?”

He nods as we round a corner in the outer wall of Havenwood House and start down a labyrinth of narrow, twisting and turning paths between tall buildings.

I can’t tell if he’s trying to confuse me, to get me to stop asking questions, or because this is the actual way to the armory.

“So all of those men—” I glance back down the path at the distant figures of the guards who were patrolling. “They’ve all survived a week out⁠—”

An orange aura swells up in my peripheral vision. I spin, throwing a hand up just in time to catch a man’s wrist and stop his dagger from plunging into my chest. A lightning bolt of pain shoots through my freshly healed but still tender shoulder. The man’s eyes go wide as I bring my other hand up and sweep his blade out to the side.

His magic slams into me—manipulation magic from the Divine of Malice. I don’t wait to find out how he’s trying to influence me. I spin under his arm and wrench his hand back. Blazing hot pain shoots through my left wrist, and though I watched Henry heal me, the ache of the injury remains.

But pain is just a focal point. I can push through it.