Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(112)

He poked his head out the door again. “Send for the kitchens to get Wren some proper food. Something hot. And a hearty drink. Mulled wine? Be quick about it.”

Wren blinked at her father. She’d asked him for mulled wine once during her grandmother’s birthday feast. He’d said something along the lines of “You can hardly make it through a meal without embarrassing yourself even when alcohol isn’t involved.” Of course, she had always managed to get alcohol on feast days—it just wasn’t from him—so he was wrong in his assessment.

Still, apparently things were different now.

Her heart squeezed at the thought, and it wasn’t an entirely pleasant experience. She was gratified to have possibly earned his respect, but a part of her grated at the idea that she’d had to in the first place. He was her father. He should have respected her before she was useful, should have loved and cared for her before she had proven she deserved it.

While they waited for the food, Vance poured himself a large measure of alka from a decanter on a side table. He took a long swig before settling back in his chair, smirking at her.

“I’m impressed, Wren. And you know I do not use such a word lightly.”

That she most certainly did know. She fidgeted under his stare, so he cast his gaze into the fire instead, taking another drink before continuing.

“I’m impressed by your initiative, your apparent rapport with the prince, and your ability to see him and yourself safely through these wastelands. Truly. There are bonesmiths twice your age who could not have done the same.”

Wren glowed at his praise.

“I have something for you,” he said, pale eyes twinkling. He put his drink down on the table and headed toward the bedchamber.

“When I heard you’d been taken, I feared the worst. But somehow I knew you’d find your way home. So I wanted to be ready when you did.”

Wren gaped. There in his hands lay a familiar weapon, Ghostbane.

“It should never have been taken from you,” he said quietly, crouching before her. “You are my daughter, and it belongs to you. I’ll never let anyone take it again.”

Tears pricked at Wren’s vision. It was everything she’d wanted, all she had lost—and some things she’d never dreamed she’d have—placed before her, ready and waiting.

She hesitated. “Does Grandmother know?”

He quirked her a smile. “Leave her to me.”

Wren took the dagger in trembling hands. She felt truly seen by her father for the first time in her life. Like he was looking at her not as a bundle of mistakes and poor choices—some of which were his own—but as a capable human being.

And yet…

He still wasn’t seeing all of her, was he?

He didn’t know that she had feelings for Julian, their alleged enemy, and that betraying him was tearing her up inside.

He didn’t know about the ring, about its connection to the boy. Her connection to him.

Wren had been lied to, and now she was doing the same thing, withholding information because it suited her, because she was—as Julian had rightly pointed out—afraid of the truth. Afraid of the repercussions of it.

Afraid that somehow the truth would change her… but she was already changed, wasn’t she?

“Dad, there’s… there’s something else.”

“Hm?”

“I found a ring,” she burst out.

“In the Breach?”

“No—well, yes, but…” She reached into her pocket and placed the ring on the table. “I found it in the Bonewood during my trial. It was next to that… that fresh body I told you about?”

“I don’t recall you mentioning a ring,” Vance commented, his tone even—but Wren heard accusation in it all the same.

“I forgot.”

“I see,” he said, though they both knew she was lying. He picked it up and examined it closely. “These are ghostsmith runes,” he said, which Wren had already pieced together.

“I saw similar glyphs in the ruins in the Breach,” she said, watching him as he studied it.

“It was a ghostsmith city, after all,” he mused, his gaze snagging on the birds carved into its surface.

“I also saw an exact duplicate of this ring there. On the boy’s finger.”

Vance leaned back in his chair. “What is it you’re trying to say, Wren?”

“That he… that he and I… You never talk about my mother.”

He blew out a breath. “Honestly, Wren, I hardly knew her. It was wartime. And then she died giving birth. There isn’t much to tell.”

“But what if she…? What if I’m…?”

“Wren, you are my daughter. Whatever this is, whatever you’re thinking, it doesn’t change anything. Do you understand?”

She nodded, her throat constricted.

He reached for her shoulder, mouth open to speak, just as a servant arrived.

While her father directed the food to be placed on the table, Wren stared at Ghostbane. The ring was gone—still in her father’s hand, she assumed—so she focused on the knife instead. She lifted it, feeling the familiar weight and heft of the weapon in her hand, before taking a deep, steadying breath.

She moved to slide the weapon into her belt sheath—and found Julian’s mother’s blade there instead. She darted an anxious glance at her father, but he was distracted with the food, his back to her. He hadn’t yet noticed that she carried an iron weapon, of all things.