Legacy (Keeper of the Lost Cities #8) - Shannon Messenger Page 0,138

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