And she couldn’t even argue that they should’ve reached out to her when they didn’t hear from her, because she’d ignored a bunch of hails after her standoff with Mr. Forkle, and there was a good chance that some of those had been from her teammates.
She was also pretty sure that she hadn’t actually given Dex an assignment to work on.
And Biana…
Sophie stopped breathing when she realized who Biana had been trying to arrange a meeting with—and why.
The same person who barked again. “Miss Foster, I know you’re awake.”
Sophie held extra still, wondering if there was any way to trick her mind into playing possum for her. Lapsing into a vegetative state for a few hours seemed like the only viable option at that point.
Until another voice said, “Maybe we should let her rest a little longer,” and Sophie’s eyes popped open—as if her brain had decided, You can ignore the grumpy Councillor, but not the nice one.
And Oralie did reward her with a warm, reassuring smile.
But then Sophie’s gaze followed the movement in her periphery, and before she could stop herself, she was focused on Councillor Bronte.
And there was something extra unsettling about his stare.
A wariness in his expression that she’d never seen before. Mixed with…
Was it pity?
Maybe even a dash of curiosity?
All of which swirled together into a nauseating reality.
He knows.
Biana must’ve followed through with her plan to confront him about being Sophie’s biological father—and if Sophie’d had any doubt, the fact that Bronte broke eye contact first definitely settled it.
But he cleared his throat, ever the steady taskmaster, and asked her, “Do you need us to explain why we’re less than satisfied with your leadership skills?”
“Satisfaction has nothing to do with it,” Oralie corrected. “We understand that it’s going to take some time for you to fully adjust to your new responsibilities, and we simply want you to know that we’re here to help you organize and prioritize. I think it might be wise for us to come up with a schedule of things for you to do every morning and every evening until they begin to feel like a habit. For instance…”
Sophie tried to listen as Oralie listed off what were surely lots of helpful leadership suggestions.
But her brain was too stuck on other, much more selfish questions like, Was Bronte, or wasn’t he?
And, Did she even want to know?
Mr. Forkle had already claimed Bronte wasn’t, but… that didn’t necessarily make it true.
“Sophie?” Oralie asked, and Sophie blinked back to proper focus, realizing that hadn’t been the first time Oralie had called her name.
“Are you okay?” Oralie asked, reaching for Sophie’s forehead like she was checking for a fever. “Should we hail Elwin?”
Sophie shook her head and forced herself to sit up—which turned out to be a mistake. An overwhelming head rush blacked out the world, and she would’ve collapsed back onto her pillow if Oralie hadn’t grabbed her shoulders.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to call for Elwin?” Oralie checked. “Or at least for your parents?”
Sophie cringed at the last word.
And Oralie frowned, tracing her fingers down Sophie’s arms—which made Sophie realize two things.
One: She was still in her jammies, which had both ruffled shorts and hopping jackalopes on the tank top.…
And two: Oralie was reading her emotions.
“You feel very… strange,” Oralie said softly, closing her eyes and tilting her head. “The worry, I understand—though you’re not in any trouble, despite what Bronte may wish you to believe. But there’s such reluctance, and dread, and—”
Sophie pulled her arms away before Oralie could add anything else to that list of feelings.
“I’m fine,” she promised, relieved to have her voice working. “I’m just…”
She needed an end to that sentence.
But her brain had run out of useful words.
Bronte sighed and stalked to the edge of the Panakes, brushing aside the curtain of weeping willow–esque branches to gaze out at the pastures. “Should I assume this means you haven’t followed up with young Miss Vacker since she spoke with me?”
Sophie managed a nod.
Bronte shook his head. “Wonderful, so I’m going to have to endure this conversation a second time.”
“What conversation?” Oralie asked.
Don’t say it, Sophie mentally begged.
She may have even transmitted the plea.
But if she did, Bronte ignored her—and it turned into one of those surreal moments where everything seemed to switch to slow motion as he turned back around to face her.
Her ears were ringing so loudly that she couldn’t make out any of the first words that crawled out of his lips—but then her brain caught back up to speed, and she managed to hear the most important part.
“For the record, Miss Foster, I most certainly am not.”
“Not what?” Oralie wondered as Sophie’s body turned numb and noodle-y.
She flopped back onto her pillow as Bronte made a sound that was half growl, half groan.
“If you must know,” he told Oralie, “I’m not her biological father.”
Even from her horizontal vantage point, Sophie could see Oralie’s mouth drop open.
“Why would…?” Oralie stumbled to her feet, wrapping her arms around her waist. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” Bronte admitted, tearing his fingers through his closely cropped hair. “Apparently Miss Foster has chosen to ignore my vehement recommendation that she stay focused on her far more pressing assignments, and has instead recruited her teammates into assisting with her ill-conceived search for her biological parents. And thanks to the unfortunate coincidence that she and I both share a rare ability, they’ve fixated on me. So I got to endure a rather ridiculous meeting with Miss Vacker the other day, wherein she accused me of participating in Project Moonlark and had Miss Heks test the veracity of my answer.” His eyes narrowed at Sophie. “Which is why I feel the need to say, once more for the official record—or as official as we’re going to get in these circumstances: I am not your genetic father, Miss Foster. By any means. And if you need to verify that I’m telling the truth, ask Councillor Oralie.”
Oralie stumbled away from both of them, shaking her head hard enough to tangle some of her ringlets. “I don’t want to be involved in this.”
“Neither do I,” Bronte noted. “And yet, here I am.”
Oralie’s rosy cheeks turned very, very pale. “If anyone found out…”
“They won’t,” Bronte assured her, “because there’s nothing to find out. Isn’t that right, Miss Foster? This whole convoluted theory was simply the wild imaginings of a few foolish teenagers. And now that they’ve seen it for its absurdity, they’re going to let it go. Aren’t they?”
His lips quirked with the tiniest hint of a smile when Sophie nodded.
“Excellent.”
“It is,” Sophie agreed, feeling her temper click back on now that the shock was finally wearing off. She held Bronte’s stare as she told him, “It’s a huge relief.”
In fact, her head felt lighter than it had in days.
Minus twenty pounds of worry.
“Good,” Bronte told her, his familiar scowl returning. “Because this is the end of this conversation. Understood? I want your word that no mention of this will be made to anyone else, ever again. Not to me. Not to your friends or family. Certainly not to anyone new.” He strode closer, looming over her. “And I also want you to promise me that you’ll listen this time and stop this foolish quest before you cause irreparable damage—and I’m not referring to any challenges you’ll cause for the elves who actually are your genetic parents, though you’ll likely destroy them with the scandal. Think of how many crucial tasks you’ve already neglected because you’ve
allowed yourself to be so distracted—and before you try to deny it, keep in mind that I gathered an update from Miss Heks about her meeting with Lady Zillah once we’d moved past the ridiculous accusation. And not only did she and Wylie acquire several pieces of information that could prove vital in our visit to Loamnore today, but she also mentioned that you’d never bothered to follow up with them. Nor had you responded when they’d reached out to you. And that kind of sloppy leadership cannot continue, Miss Foster. Councillor Oralie and I are happy to help you set up some systems for checks and balances—but none of them will matter if you choose to be sidetracked. It’s time for you to focus, before someone gets hurt.”
He was absolutely right.
And Sophie hated him for it.
She also hated herself for hating him for it—and for failing so hard at everything lately.
All the time she’d spent stressing and obsessing about her genetic parents and matchmaking—and what did she have to show for it?
Another disproved theory about her biological father, and a boyfriend she’d neglected so badly that he might not even be her boyfriend anymore.
And yet, despite all that, she still wasn’t willing to promise what Bronte wanted.
So she told him, “I promise I’m going to adjust my priorities and concentrate on the bigger problems.”
“Don’t think I don’t notice what you’re doing there, Miss Foster,” Bronte countered.
“I’m sure you do,” she agreed. “But wouldn’t you rather I be honest with you?”
He blew out a breath. “I suppose. So long as you’re also ready to take your position as Regent more seriously.”
She stared at her lap, tugging at the stupid ruffles on her shorts, which probably made it harder for him to believe her when she said, “I am.”
“Good,” Bronte told her, frowning when he glanced at Oralie, who still stood several steps away, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “Then go inside and get ready. To play the part, you first need to look the part—isn’t that right, Oralie?”
Oralie didn’t respond.
Bronte cleared his throat and turned back to Sophie. “The rest of your teammates should be here within the hour, so I suggest you hurry. We have much to discuss before their arrival. And then together, we’ll all need to go over the protocol for meeting with King Enki, as well as some fundamentals for what to expect in Loamnore. In many, many ways the city is unlike anywhere you’ve been before. In fact, it can be downright disorienting. So the more you prepare ahead of time, the better.”
Sophie nodded, knowing it probably didn’t help instill Bronte with a lot of confidence when she gathered up her blankets, pillows, and Ella and stumbled toward the house with the giant bundle, tripping over her feet several times.
But she didn’t feel right leaving all of that outside.
And it wasn’t like she needed to impress him.
He wasn’t her father.
Never before had those words been such a happy thing, and she repeated them with every step, feeling her smile grow wider and wider.
But it faded when Bronte called after her, “Remember who you are now, Miss Foster. And when you return, make sure you’re wearing your crown.”
TWENTY-THREE
ANYONE ELSE REALLY HATE THIS?” Stina asked, scrunching up her face as she took a cautious step onto the soggy ground in front of her. The mud suctioned around her foot, and she screamed and jumped back, nearly falling when her boot stayed lodged in the sludge. “Seriously,” Stina grumbled, using telekinesis to retrieve her goop-covered shoe. “It’s disgusting.”
Sophie definitely wasn’t going to argue with Stina’s assessment of the situation—particularly as she waded another step into the bog and the squishy ground slipped away under her feet, leaving her with the thick, stinky mud now up past her knees. She could feel its curdled texture through the thin fabric of her leggings and was not looking forward to having the same muck directly on her skin. Her gloves stopped at her wrists, and the blue tunic she’d worn was unfortunately sleeveless, leaving lots of exposed arm—and she didn’t even want to think about the fact that she was going to have to dunk her face and head under.…
The desert was also glaringly bright and annoyingly windy, and the temperature had to be at least a million degrees—even in the small oasis they’d reached after several long minutes of hiking. The patch of green and blue had seemed so mysterious and inviting when Sophie had first spotted it among the endless sea of rippled dunes—the kind of place where she might find a magic carpet. Or a genie’s lamp.
But of course Bronte and Grady had led them past the cool, shimmering lagoon without even pausing to dip a toe in. They’d also ignored the much-needed shade formed by the clumps of lacy palm trees, instead heading straight for an icky brown quagmire on the far side of the oasis, bordered by scraggly grass.
The area kind of looked like something that’d be used as a camel potty spot—and it very well might be.
Sophie was trying really hard not to wonder about that as her next step sank her even deeper into the mud.
But she couldn’t help glancing longingly at Sandor, who’d managed to find a place that was both well shaded and a little breezy to stand as sentinel while they went on without him. Goblins weren’t allowed to enter the dwarven city, so Sandor was restricted to guarding Loamnore’s entrance—and Woltzer and Lovise had been forbidden from joining them at all.
Sandor had been complaining vigorously about the restrictions—right up until he saw the mire of steaming mud they all had to sink through.
Then he’d become much more cooperative.
“You’re sure this is the only way to get to Loamnore?” Stina asked, earning several heaving sighs from Grady and Bronte.
Oralie had decided to stay behind when they’d left Havenfield, and at first Sophie had found that to be a little strange. But now that she was experiencing the mud-drenched method of entry into the dwarven city, Sophie was pretty sure she understood why the pretty Councillor had decided to skip the visit to King Enki.
“For the fifth and final time, Miss Heks, yes—this is our path,” Bronte snapped as he strode into the muck in all of his jewel-encrusted finery. Within three steps, he’d sunk past his waist. “Do you honestly think I would use it if there were any alternative?”
“Well, there should be an alternative,” Stina muttered, stomping her boot to clean off as much of the gunk as she could.
Clearly she was in denial about the muddy fun she still had ahead of her.
“You’ll be fine,” Sophie promised. “Alden and I had to sink through quicksand at the Gateway to Exile, and it really wasn’t that big of a deal.”
Though, she couldn’t help a tiny shudder as her mind flashed back to that scratchy, suffocating fall.
“The dwarves seem to like messy entrances,” Dex noted, moving to the lead of their muddy group. He was even grinning, like he was actually enjoying the journey through the sludge.
“It’s not about what we like,” Nubiti corrected as her furry face popped out of a nearby patch of sand, and Sophie was pretty sure her dwarven bodyguard was smirking at all of them for squealing like schoolchildren—but it was hard to tell with Nubiti’s squinted eyes. “It’s that your species is useless at tunneling, so we’ve had to get creative in order to give you access to our world.”
“Or you could just dig a tunnel,” Stina argued. “Carve in some of those things called ‘stairs’—maybe you’ve heard of them?”
“A tunnel like that would greatly compromise Loamnore’s security,” Nubiti countered.
“Yeah, but it wouldn’t be gross!” Stina snapped back. “And wait a minute—Tam and Linh lived in a house in Loamnore for a while, didn’t they? So how did they get back from the Lost Cities after school and stuff? Don’t even try telling me they were diving into pools of sludgy mud all the time. No way that’s what happened.”
“That’s true,” Sophie realized, “Mr. Forkle gave them special magsidian pendants he�
��d gotten from King Enki.”
“Perfect—where do I get one of those?” Stina demanded.
“That’s not how it works,” Nubiti corrected. “Accessing a residence is different than accessing the city as a whole. Each residence has its own unique security—and some are far more flexible than others, like the place where your friends stayed. And before you ask, no, accessing a residence doesn’t mean you can then access the main city, just like visiting one of your estates does not then lead to any of your cities.”
“Right, but our houses are scattered all over the planet,” Stina reminded her, “and so are our cities, so that’s a whole different thing. I’ve seen maps of Loamnore—your residences are right here.”
“That does not mean there’s a way for an elf to pass from one to another,” Nubiti insisted.
Stina rolled her eyes. “Well, there should be. Seriously, this is the most ridiculous arrangement I’ve ever heard of!”
“Hey, we make everyone slide down a giant whirlpool to get to Atlantis,” Biana reminded her, sounding surprisingly chipper for a girl who usually obsessed about her hair and makeup and was currently thigh-deep in poop-colored muck. “Fitz still talks about how freaked out Sophie was the first time she had to try it. He said he was about three seconds away from having to push her over the edge because she was frozen in place.”
The sound of Fitz’s name made Sophie’s heart both fluttery and heavier—but she shoved all of those feelings aside.
She was not letting any boy worries distract her that day.
But she could tell Biana was watching her, waiting for some sort of reaction. So she announced to everyone, “I would’ve taken Fitz with me if he’d tried.”
The threat might’ve sounded more ominous if she hadn’t lost her balance on her next step—and she would’ve face-planted into the mud if Wylie hadn’t lunged to grab her shoulders. The poor guy ended up sunken all the way to his chest as a reward for his heroics.
“Thanks,” Sophie mumbled, not quite meeting Wylie’s eyes.
She hadn’t found the right moment to ask if he’d spoken to Maruca yet, but she had a feeling that if he had, he would’ve let her eat some stinky mud—and she probably would’ve deserved it.
Legacy (Keeper of the Lost Cities Book 8) Page 36