Chapter 20 · One Word

Two heartbeats. He says it flat, like a verdict read off a page, and he's looking at my stomach when he says it.

"Put a thumb on your own artery," I tell him. "See how steady yours sounds."

"Mine's steady." He tips his head a degree — the listening angle, the one that means he's hearing through walls. "Yours is running. And there's a second one under it. That's the one I'm asking about."

"Ask the rain. It's loud enough to drown you out."

"Seraphina."

Low. Unhurried. A heavy door locking. It used to turn my knees to water. Now it lights up the scar between my shoulder blades — the bond mark, the one the healer swore would silver over and go quiet once he cut it at the Tribunal.

She lied. Inside fifty feet of him it burns like a fresh coal. Six weeks of practice keeps my face frozen.

"Say what you came for," I tell him. "Then let go of my wrist."

"I came to find who's been stealing from my stores." He looks past me. At the stove I scoured. At the blanket I folded square.