Page 63 of The Trials of Ophelia

She tilted her head, considering. Why had both of us been gifted these powers?

Finally, she said, voice strong and sure, “I can communicate with spirits.”

My glass nearly slipped from my hand, because of all the things she could have admitted, that wasn’t one I’d expected. But I tried not to show my surprise, taking a long sip of wine. Cool notes of pears and summer berries lingered on my tongue as I decided what to say next.

Ease into it, I figured.

“Like a Soulguider?” It could make sense. We both had the blood of the minor clan from our grandmother. Granted, her line was weak, but it was there.

“Not exactly.” With a surge of confidence, she leaned forward. “I can’t guide them. I only hear them. It first happened during the war, when the battles moved closer to Palerman. Spirits, when they tore through the city…they took out so many of our people, so close, so loud—they were so loud.” She swallowed, eyes clenching shut as the horrors played out in her memory, voices likely rushing through her ears.

Angels, my own blood chilled watching her like this. Hastily, I clamored to her bed and pulled her into my arms.

“There were so many of them,” she whispered against my shoulder. “So many dying, shouting, asking for one last minute, for their families.”

With trembling hands, one still holding her glass, she tried to cover her ears. Smother those memories. She’d only been fourteen. Fourteen years old. Barely of age to train formally—not an adult by any means. And she’d been drowning in the voices of the desperate and dying.

“I’m so sorry.” I kissed her hair, running a hand down her spine. Slowly, tension leaked from her body.

When she sat up, her eyes were bloodshot, but she didn’t shed a single tear. It almost unsettled me.

“I hadn’t noticed it before then. I think it always happened, but that was the first time it was so heavy I couldn’t excuse it as an odd draft of wind or whisper from a stranger.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

She gave me a look that broke a bit of the tension between us. Right—secrets. That’s what we used to do.

“I told Erista,” she continued. “We were already together, so I asked her more about Soulguider experiences. I thought maybe it was the magic developing and, for some reason, my blood tended toward Grandmother’s instead of Mystique.”

It was possible, I supposed. To have a minority bloodline overshadow the majority. I didn’t know much about it, but with the magic comprising warriors, I assumed there was a way.

“It isn’t, though.” Jezebel finished her wine and set the glass on the side table. “E said there’s no division of Soulguider power that functions like mine. She dug through history and couldn’t find a single mention of it.”

“Maybe it wasn’t recorded?” I offered.

A shrug. “That’s possible. If it’s atypical, it could mean whoever else had it didn’t want to report it. Maybe they thought it would label them as an outcast.” Her brows pulled together, eyes dropping to the array of decorative shells on the side table. She picked up a small gray-streaked one and twirled it between her fingers.

“It doesn’t make you an outcast.” I turned her chin to face me. “It makes you powerful, Jez.”

“Power can create unintended boundaries.” That small voice was back.

“It can.” I nodded. I wouldn’t lie to her. Power was delicate. How it was handled, even more so. “But if we’re aware of that, and work against it, we can ensure it does not happen.”

She nodded, closing her grip around the shell. I scooted back to give her space, crossing my legs.

“Is there more you know?”

She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You remember that winged creature from before the Undertaking?”

“Do I remember the terrifying, strange beast that nearly killed my sister? Can’t say I do.”

Jezebel hit my arm lightly, lips pulling into a line when she realized she’d nearly hit my scar from Kakias. After looking at it for a long moment, she said, “That’s the reason it didn’t kill me. I could hear it.”

“Its spirit?”

“I think so.” She nodded. “It was the first time I’d ever communicated with a living thing, though. Before it had only been the dying. Before their spirits crossed over, when the barrier was weakest.”

Realization crashed into me. That beast had looked at Jezebel. Truly looked at her—recognized her unlike any of us. And then, it had fled. And she sank into herself, unraveling a power none of us knew about.

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