Page 58 of A House of Cloaks & Daggers

“Then we’re agreed.” I tried, and failed, to make my voice sound light.

He smiled again, soft and affectionate, and I started saying his name in my head over and over again so I wouldn’t forget who he was. The man who likely tortured people, the butcher in the hallway; not this, whatever it was, presenting itself to me draped in sheepskin and romantic faelight by the bookcase.

“What is it you want?” I asked suddenly. His warning look, though not harsh, immediately cured me of longing for an answer. “Never mind. Sorry.”

Wren’s sensual chuckle filled the room as he turned away and plucked a book from the shelf. “This has always helped me get through the storms,” he mused, extending it to me as he closed the space between us in a few long steps.

I reached for the book, entitledThe Sins of Stars, and his thumb brushed mine as he released it and pulled back his hand.

The only part of my brain still functioning in spite of my confusion awakened to the sense of thatthingcircling back to me again, filled with magic or memories that I rejected with a tall wall of mental adamant.

“We have quite a few meetings coming up,” he informed me softly. “If you need one of us, we’ll come as soon as we can. But, in the meantime, we’ll send a maid up to check on you. Her name is Delia. I think you’ll get on well.”

I watched as Wren put one hand in his pocket, leaving the enormous hardcover book in my grasp, and hesitated before pulling his other hand away.

Before I could react, his fingers threaded into my hair, palm cupped around the side of my head as he brushed it behind my ear.

“For what it’s worth,” he whispered, stroking my temple with his thumb, “I wish it was different, bookworm. I really do.”

Wish what was different?

Then he was gone. His touch was missing like someone had ripped the blankets off me right as I was beginning to fall asleep, and he disappeared through the open doorway.

The magic swirling around me reached for him, stretching between us as far as it could go before it just…snapped. Like thread against a blade. Dissipating into thin air as the faelights dimmed and eventually disappeared with Wren and everything else he had taken with him.

Suddenly exposed to the dark and cold again, I hugged the book close to my chest, ignoring the way its hard corners dug into my skin, and swung around the post until I collapsed onto the mattress.

Wren, Wren, Wren, Wren.

There was a final, almighty groan of thunder outside like the creaky slam of a door flying off its hinges.

And then, as if it had been sucked out of the sky by a holy vacuum, the storm stopped.

Chapter twenty-three

Obsidian

The next morning, Iawoke to the sound of knuckles rapping against my bedroom door. Bleary-eyed, I stumbled out from under the tangle of blankets and went to unlock it.

After Wren’s visit, the House had made itself unavailable to me as if I had committed some offence against it, refusing to even provide fresh towelling when I went to wash my face before tucking myself into bed for the night.

The old linen would have sufficed, but it had taken that away.

I didn’tneedthe House, though.

Barely even wanted it.

Flicking back the lock, I turned the doorknob and yanked back the wooden door. I was half expecting to find Lucais in the hallway because I knew that Wren wouldn’t have bothered to knock, but the person standing there was a young High Fae woman, and she handed me a note before I could scream.

Bookworm—this is Delia. Be nice to her, will you? She’s lovely, and here to help you with whatever you need while we are otherwise engaged. Poor communication skills, though. Pity about that.

Wren’s words were scrawled across a torn-off piece of parchment paper with blotches of ink and other liquid stains I didn’t care to study too closely.

I glanced back at Delia, trying to conceal my expression with a hand over my mouth, but I was well aware that it was a futile attempt and that I was being incredibly rude.

She was beautiful with peach skin and long white hair draped over her shoulder in a braid. Her irises were dark silver, and they glittered like starlight as she stared back at me with a level of patience honed down into an art form after years—or centuries—of practice.

Because her mouth, as white as bone, had been sewn shut with thick metallic-grey thread.

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