Page 111 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
His snakes—thatIcan see—killed his parents.
“They grew fast,” he mutters. It takes me by surprise, how willing he is to share this story. “Out of nowhere, really. Um… One day, during the Neptharian War, my mom, she came to check on me and turned to stone. I screamed.” He shrugs. “I shouldn’t have. Dad came in.” He breathes. “Then he died, too.”
“Oh my gods.” A chill runs over my skin. “How did you—how old were you?”
“I barely survived.” He answers the question I was too scared to ask. “I was six. I was alone an entire day before the soldiers—the Folk—came rushing in. They looked at me, and they all died, too. After that I wrote a note on the door. It said,‘Hungry. I keep turning them to stone, but I need food.’Those words never left my mind. I think they were the first I ever wrote… But the next group of soldiers thought it was a joke, and they came in with swords ready. The next time… I left the noteonthe stone bodies.
“The soldiers threw me a rag to wrap around my head. I’d nearly starved to death by that point, I think my body started consuming itself to survive. I don’t even remember how I wrapped the rag.
“The soldiers carried me out, brought me to Ilyria first, I think. They decided that my power was toodangerousto be left in the wild. They brought me to Visnatus.”
I shake my head, but he continues.
“Everyone has their shit, Wendy. But things like this… they’re not our fault. I didn’t know my snakes would kill; you didn’t know a pernipe was coming.”
Saying anything in the wake of his tragedy feels wrong. Despite wanting to argue against him—that maybe I didn’t know the pernipe was coming, but I should havestoppedit—I take his hand, and I put the violet inside of it.
Azaire shakes his head. “It’s for you.”
“I want you to have it.” I close his hand around the flower. “I want you to have a piece of the kindness you offer me.”
Azaire pauses, his eyes lingering on the flower, then meeting mine. “It isn’t kindness.” His eyes soften, his breath catching for a moment. “It’s love.”
“Wendy!” my classmate calls.
I clear my throat, trying to look into Azaire’s eyes for as long as I can before I glance up. The girl holds a white flower between her fingers. The hemlock I avoided earlier. One of the deadliest plants in the woods. “I have extra for you.”
The worst part is that she thinks she’s helping.
I try to speak, but all I do is stutter. “Um…” I clear my throat. “Can you hold it, for a moment? It’s hard to clean the hemlock residue from my gloves.” I hold up my hands with a shrug.
She nods, walking back toward the group of students.
Azaire and I follow, and the moment I step between the people sitting on the ground, their judgements fill me. They’ve already made assumptions about Azaire and me, and there’s more than a touch of contempt.
My classmate hands the hemlock to Azaire—hands theabuseto thevictim—and thinks nothing of it. He smiles at her, as if she’s done him a favor.
She thinks she has.
I sit with Azaire, unbuttoning my gloves. My hands shake with fear. I didn’t want it to come to this. I don’t want to feed the boy I love poison.
As I peel the gloves from my hands, my breath shudders.
“Hey.” Azaire wraps both of his hands over mine. “Eyes on me, remember?”
I look away from our hands, at him.
“That’s good,” he says.
I take a deep breath, nodding, and he releases my hands. I’m still shaking as Azaire drops the hemlock in the mortar. I raise the pestle, crushing the plant and mixing it with water.
Gently, I hold my hand under Azaire’s chin and let the poison drip down his throat.
?
As we walk back to academy, Azaire healed—but perhaps not healthy—and next to me, Ms. Ferner steps beside me.
“We need to talk,” she says ominously.
