Harrow the Ninth (The Locked Tomb, #2)

by Tamsyn Muir

“It is a drawing of the letter S,” said the deep, solemn voice from over her shoulder, and she realized she had stopped midstride. “The letter in question is constructed from six short marks stacked vertically three by three. There are two triangles on the top and bottom, which, along with some diagonal strokes, form a calligraphic S.”

So I’m shut in here—walled in, really—to prevent the Nine Houses becoming none House, with left grief.”

What was the joke again? That the Ninth House knew a thousand shades of off-white?

You didn’t have your original thumb and I’d touched your intestines, which is usually what, fourth date, but you were fine.

“Hi, Not Fucking Dead,” he said. “I’m Dad.”