Page 56 of Ink Blood Sister Scribe

“Those veins are a precious commodity,” Richard said. “We want to be careful with them.”

Nicholas took another long swallow of orange juice, waiting. But Richard said nothing else, simply began setting up the kitchen floor for a circle, as he always did. Slowly, Nicholas’s pulse began to come down. If Richard had seen the body, he did not seem to have connected it in any way with Nicholas. Collins had been right. All Nicholas had to do was act like his normal self, not give anything away.

He set his glass down and began rolling up his sleeves, examining his scarred forearms for a likely spot, though he was having trouble focusing his vision. The momentary calm had dissipated and in its wake his heart rate climbed again, because regardless of Tretheway, regardless of whether Richard knew or not what Nicholas had seen, hehadseen his own eye floating in goo.

How many times had Richard helped him with bloodletting? How many times had his uncle’s caring, capable fingers wrapped the pressure cuff around Nicholas’s upper arm and taken the plastic covering off a new needle? How many times had Nicholas sat there and let Richard tap his veins like a miner picking for ore? Those same hands had taken his eye from his head and blamed it on strangers.

His own hands were trembling.

Act normal,he told himself desperately,act normal. But how could he? How could he let Richard stick a needle in his skin after seeing that jar?

“You know,” he said, lowering his shirt cuff, “I’m actually not feeling that well.”

“Oh dear,” Richard said, and came at him with an open palm. Nicholas tried not to flinch away as his uncle felt his forehead. “You don’t have a temperature.”

“I’m just not feeling very well.”

“It’s natural, after what happened the other night,” Richard said.“But we’ve got our top people on the case, and you know nothing can hurt you in here.”

A lie. Richard could hurt him. Nicholas knew that now.

“Can’t the ink wait?”

“Not if we want to get to the bottom of this,” Richard said. “Someone told your attacker what you can do, which means somebody close to us, close to the Library, has betrayed our trust. We need truth spells if we’re going to get answers, and the longer we wait, the less likely it is we’ll ever learn what happened.”

“Maybe I don’t care what happened,” Nicholas said.

“Ah,” Richard said, drawing the syllable out slowly. He set down the box of needles. “Being attacked the other night made you feel powerless and so you’re asserting power where you can—I quite understand. A natural reaction.” He held out his hands in resignation. “Well, I can’t argue with a trauma response, can I?”

Richard was baiting him, not even hiding it, and Nicholas knew this, but somehow knowing didn’t help. Richard’s stupid mind games worked anyway. Even as Nicholas told himself to turn away and leave it, he said, “I don’t feelpowerless,I feelill.”

“This must be Maram’s influence,” Richard said. “Don’t let her baby you—you know your own limits better than anyone.”

“These are my limits!”

Richard’s air of tolerant good humor faded, and he peered at Nicholas more closely. His voice was tinged with real worry when he said, “What’s this about, Nicholas? If you’re ill, you’re ill, but I don’t think that’s what’s troubling you. Sit, talk to me.”

Richard sat at the table and gestured to the chair across from him, and Nicholas, despite himself, sat.

“Good,” said Richard. “Now. Tell me what’s going on.”

Nicholas folded his trembling hands into fists in his lap. Richard’s face hadn’t noticeably changed since Nicholas was a child. He knew every fold and quirk of every one of Richard’s expressions, had even seen someof them on his own face in the mirror, the family resemblance surfacing at surprising times. It was a face that had infuriated him countless times—and comforted him even more. He had trusted his uncle all his life. Was his own trust so easy to break?

“Excuse me,” said Collins from the doorway. Both Nicholas and Richard jumped, their shoulders jerking in surprise at the sound of his voice.

“Good lord, Collins,” Richard said. “How long have you been lurking there?”

“Sorry,” said Collins. “I just wanted to ask if you’ve seen Sir Kiwi’s squeaky pig? The one in the tux. She’s going bananas looking for it.”

Now Richard and Collins were both staring at Nicholas expectantly. He worked to get his thoughts in order. “The squeaky... it’s—should be in my room, probably under the bed.”

“Thanks,” said Collins. “Apologies for the interruption.”

Richard had already turned away from him, but Nicholas glanced again at the open door, where Collins stood unmoving. Over Richard’s shoulder he shook his head—once, twice, his eyes boring into Nicholas’s. Then, the words clear and exaggerated, he mouthed:Don’t tell him.

A second later he’d closed the kitchen door behind him and was gone.

“So what is it?” Richard prompted.

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