Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace #1)(79)

Misgiving spools inside me. “Oh?”

She takes my hand again, dips it once more in the water, and begins to wrap it. “It is about Ailesse.”

All my nerves stand at attention. “Did you find her?”

Odiva’s eyes fill with sorrow—too late for me to believe. “You need to prepare yourself. I know how much you care for my daughter.”

But how much do you?

She sighs and looks down. “Ailesse is dead. I am sure of it this time.”

My hand tenses, but she doesn’t let it go.

“Tyrus gave me a sign.”

The god who won’t tell you where his jackal is?

“I trust him. The bond between a mother and a daughter carries a grace of its own. I’ve searched myself deeply, and my attachment to Ailesse is gone.”

Was there ever one to begin with?

Odiva finishes binding my hand. “I am sorry I had to be the one to tell you. I can see how shocking it is.”

“Yes.” My voice scratches on a whisper. Ailesse isn’t dead. I know it just like the first time Odiva spun this lie. If I look shocked, it’s because her heartlessness knows no end. Why is she so determined to abandon her daughter and the bone flute?

“I have grieved more than you know for Ailesse. Every Leurress in our famille has. But we must not fall into despair. The gods expect us to perform our duty, no matter our hardships. That is why they have intervened.”

What is she talking about? Perspiration trickles down the back of my neck as her grip subtly tightens.

She inhales a long breath through her nostrils and lifts her chin. “Tyrus has also given me another sign. He has chosen you to be my heir.”

I stare incredulously at her. “What?” I yank my hand away and scoot back. “No. Ailesse is your heir. She’s alive, Matrone. You can’t really believe—”

“You have to stop living in denial. You need to embrace your destiny.”

“My destiny?” A humorless laugh escapes me. “I never wanted to be a Ferrier. I didn’t even want these.” I tug at my grace bones.

“You are modest to a fault, Sabine. I see what you can become.” Her voice fills with urgency. “You need to see it, too. Once you complete your rite of passage—”

“No.” I stand and cover my ears. She can’t say things like this to me. It isn’t just a betrayal to Ailesse; it’s preposterous. “Heirs are always daughters.”

“Unless there are none.” She swiftly rises.

I stumble backward from her. “No one in our famille will accept me.”

“I’ll tell them what I told you: Tyrus gave me a sign.”

“Then he’s mistaken!” I fight to breathe. “I’m not qualified. Every Leurress is more talented. Everyone has better graces.” I was right—Odiva did want Ailesse to fail her rite of passage. She knew she’d be reckless, and she hoped she’d die without having to kill her directly. I just don’t understand why. Why does she want me instead?

“You have the bone of a black wolf, Sabine. That is nothing to be ashamed about. And when you become matrone, you can claim two more grace bones.”

My heart pounds out of my chest. I can’t listen to this. I have to get away from her. But she’s blocking my path out of the hollow. I turn and rush toward the other path. My feet splash through the stream. She catches my arm when I’m halfway across. I yank against her. “Let go!”

“Don’t be rash.” She draws taller with poised confidence. “This is a great honor. Why are you so resistant?”

“Because I can’t be Ailesse!” I shout. Angry tears scald my face. “Because you have a daughter you don’t love!”

“You are wrong.” Her tone rises, just as furious and passionate as mine. “I do love Ailesse.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“I’ve told you.” Her voice breaks. “Tyrus says it must be so.”

“Tyrus can rot in the darkest pit of his Hell.”

“Sabine.” Odiva pulls me around, but I keep my head turned. “Look at me.” She grabs my chin, but I squeeze my eyes shut like a stubborn child. “Do you not believe I love you, too?”

“You shouldn’t. You should love Ailesse more.”

“Sabine . . .” The fight drains from her voice. “You are my daughter, too.”

My shock is so deep that all the breath leaves my lungs. I open my eyes and stare into hers. They’re shining with tears. “You are my daughter,” she says again, a sacred whisper this time. She lifts her hand to my cheek and cradles it. “I have wanted to tell you for so long.” Her brows lift inward. “I promised myself I never would.”

The stream rushes over my feet and splashes at my ankles. I don’t feel the cold. “What—what are you talking about?” My voice barely rises past my throat.

“Your father . . . he wasn’t my amouré. He wasn’t Ailesse’s father either.”

Every word she speaks falls like a hammer. “But”—I shake my head—“Ailesse and I are too close in age.” I have to concentrate on facts, logic. They’ll prove Odiva is wrong. “You can’t be mother to both of us.”

“You are barely sixteen. Ailesse is almost eighteen. There was time.”