“Was there ever,” Bryce ventured, a sudden hunch taking form in her mind, “a Made object called the Horn?” “I don’t know,” Nesta said. “Why?” Bryce gazed at the eight-pointed star, the very heart of this chamber, of this map of the cosmos. “Someone put your Harp there for a reason.” “To keep it hidden,” Azriel said. “No,” Bryce said quietly, facing the star fully, her free hand drifting to touch the matching scar on her chest. It had led her all the way here. To this exact spot, where the Harp had been. “It was left for someone like me.”
