Chapter 86 In The Silence
The corridors of the keep had never quite shed the stink of charred oil and old blood. Even weeks after the last real fighting, Daisy still caught whiffs of it in the cracks between the flagstones, in the damp that crept up from the river after dark. She and Oliver walked side by side, their shadows slanting long on the walls where torch soot overlapped splatters of centuries-old paint. Bullet holes and pitted scars turned the plaster into a kind of Braille for the blind and bitter, reminders that peace could end up just as messy as war if you didn’t watch your step.
They didn’t speak for the first three turns of the hallway. Every few paces, the backs of their hands would graze, and every time, both of them pretended not to notice. Daisy’s thoughts were still knotted with the council’s arguments, Mira Stone’s warning about spies gnawing at her from the inside out. She wanted to ask Oliver if he believed in monsters, or if he thought people just became what the city demanded of them, but couldn’t force the words past her tongue.
At the landing before her mother’s door, Oliver stopped. He leaned against the frame as if holding up the entire floor, and Daisy became suddenly aware of how thin the walls were, how easily voices might carry through them. He looked at her the way he always did before something dangerous, measuring risk, preparing for retreat if needed.
“Hey,” he said, in a voice pitched soft so no one else would hear, “don’t let the old man get to you. Samuel can barely keep his own socks up, let alone a city.”
Daisy managed a sideways smile. “He’s right, though. If they come for us, it’ll be my face on every pike. Yours, too, if you stick around.”
Oliver shrugged. “I was never much good at running, anyway.” He reached up, hesitated a split-second, then gently brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The pad of his thumb lingered a fraction longer than necessary. Daisy felt the heat rise up her neck, and this time she let it.
“I’ll bring what my informants have by nightfall,” he said, lowering his hand but not breaking her gaze. “If anyone’s plotting, we’ll know first.”
“Don’t get caught,” she said, trying to make it sound like a joke.
Oliver’s grin was crooked as a fox’s. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He stepped back, then let his hand fall to the small of her back, a barely-there reassurance that was gone too soon.
He left with the soundless ease of a practiced thief, disappearing into the stairwell. Daisy watched the empty air where he’d been, then steeled herself and pushed into her mother’s room.
Maribel Smithson never bothered with the pretense of privacy. She lay propped against a mound of yellowed pillows, a threadbare quilt pulled up to her collarbone, and her hair tied back in a gray-black braid that showed off the angles of her face. She had always been a beautiful woman, sharp-featured, high-cheeked, her eyes a blue that threatened to knife you if you didn’t treat her straight. Illness had left her hollowed out, but the force of her personality filled every inch the disease had taken.
She was awake and waiting.
Daisy closed the door behind her and moved to the bedside, feeling like an imposter in her own skin. Her mother’s gaze flicked immediately to the pendant at Daisy’s throat. Maribel’s lips curved in a wry, knowing smile.
“That boy has skilled hands,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, but the sarcasm came through just fine.
Daisy touched the pendant, self-conscious. “It’s just a…” She stopped, because there was no point lying to a woman who’d survived more schemes than Daisy had years on this earth. “It’s a gift.”
Maribel’s eyes glittered with some emotion Daisy couldn’t name. “A gift is never just a gift, Pesty. It’s a promise, or a warning. Sometimes both.” She coughed, the sound raw, but waved away Daisy’s attempt to help.
“Did you hear about the council?” Daisy said, wanting to change the subject.
Maribel looked out the window, where afternoon sunlight spilled in over the rooftops, dousing the city in liquid gold. “I heard your voice from two floors down. You have your father’s lungs, but not his foolishness.” She reached out, and Daisy took her hand, thin as a chicken bone, but the grip was strong and urgent.
“You did what you could. More than anyone ever has.” Maribel’s thumb traced the edge of Daisy’s palm. “But you know this city. It doesn’t love its saviors. It eats them.”
Daisy swallowed, unable to meet her mother’s eyes.
Maribel’s grip tightened, startling Daisy into attention. “Listen to me, girl. Your fame is spreading, whether you want it or not. You have a monster at your back, and you’ve drawn the envy of every fool with a taste for power. The only way you survive this is to never forget what they fear most: not the dragon, not your magic…” She looked Daisy dead in the eye. “But your refusal to play by their rules.”
The afternoon was slipping toward dusk. Daisy could see the streets below, the nervous flow of people moving supplies, a fire being started in a vendor’s brazier. All of it felt distant, like watching a memory replay in a fogged mirror.
Maribel’s tone softened. “Guard your heart, Pesty. As fiercely as you guard the city. Not all threats announce themselves with armies.”
They sat like that for a long while, hands joined in silence. Daisy felt the old ache of childhood, those few years before the world went bad, pressing in behind her ribs. It hurt, but it steadied her.
The light outside faded from gold to gray. Maribel drifted toward sleep, her breathing slow and ragged. Daisy remained at her side, pulse still pounding with the weight of everything left unsaid.
She stood at the window, watching torches spring to life along the main thoroughfares, and touched the pendant again, anchor, promise, warning, all in one. The city was alive, yes, but restless. Hungry.
Somewhere down there, monsters watched and waited. So did heroes, and people who could be either if you looked from the wrong angle. Daisy thought of Oliver, of Xeris, of every council member who’d bared teeth at her in that dim chamber and then bowed her head in deference.
She felt tired to her bones, and the responsibility perched on her shoulders like a living thing. But she could not, would not become what they expected of her.
Let them fear her. Let them wonder what she would do next.
She didn’t know herself. But she would decide in her own time.
Daisy closed the curtains, leaving the city to its murmurs, and sat beside her mother’s bed in the growing dark.
In the silence, she found her answer.