2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

sisters … “They might not be happy about it, but I’ll make Elain and Nesta do it.”
I didn’t have the nerve to ask Rhys if he could simply force my family to agree to help
us if they refused. I wondered if his powers would work on Nesta when even Tamlin’s
glamour had failed against her steel mind.
“Then it’s settled,” Rhys said. None of them looked particularly happy. “Once Feyre
darling returns from the Weaver, we’ll bring Hybern to its knees.”
Rhys and the others were gone that night—where, no one told me. But after the events of
the day, I barely finished devouring the food Nuala and Cerridwen brought to my room
before I tumbled into sleep.
I dreamed of a long, white bone, carved with horrifying accuracy: my face, twisted in
agony and despair; the ash knife in my hand; a pool of blood leaking away from two
corpses—
But I awoke to the watery light of winter dawn—my stomach full from the night before.
A mere minute after I’d risen to consciousness, Rhys knocked on my door. I’d barely
granted him permission to enter before he stalked inside like a midnight wind, and
chucked a belt hung with knives onto the foot of the bed.
“Hurry,” he said, flinging open the doors of the armoire and yanking out my fighting
leathers. He tossed them onto the bed, too. “I want to be gone before the sun is fully up.”
“Why?” I said, pushing back the covers. No wings today.
“Because time is of the essence.” He dug out my socks and boots. “Once the King of
Hybern realizes that someone is searching for the Book of Breathings to nullify the
powers of the Cauldron, then his agents will begin hunting for it, too.”
“You suspected this for a while, though.” I hadn’t had the chance to discuss it with him
last night. “The Cauldron, the king, the Book … You wanted it confirmed, but you were
waiting for me.”
“Had you agreed to work with me two months ago, I would have taken you right to the
Bone Carver to see if he confirmed my suspicions about your talents. But things didn’t go
as planned.”
No, they most certainly hadn’t.
“The reading,” I said, sliding my feet into fleece-lined, thick-soled slippers. “That’s
why you insisted on the lessons. So if your suspicions were true and I could harness the
Book … I could actually read it—or any translation of whatever is inside.” A book that old
might very well be written in an entirely different language. A different alphabet.
“Again,” he said, now striding for the dresser, “had you started to work with me, I
would have told you why. I couldn’t risk discovery otherwise.” He paused with a hand on
the knob. “You should have learned to read no matter what. But yes, when I told you it
served my own purposes—it was because of this. Do you blame me for it?”