Page 155 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
Chapter 29
A Ghost Made of
Memories
L
ucian doesn’t care about the prophecy. The boy doesn’t care about the prophecy.
The boy is me.
The boy is the worst of me—
No.
The boy is me.
Azaire isn’t here to care about the prophecy.
Calista has a vague understanding.
I need a Eunoia, then. That’s it.
I storm into Ms. Ferner’s classroom. There’s a group of students—likely two years below me—listening as she talks about the nature of healing. After the last time we spoke—after what I did to her—it’s out of line to barge in now. To interrupt her class. But she once helped me maintain my power, and I need that help now.
Ms. Ferner glances around the class, slowly bringing her gaze to mine. Her eyes begin to glow—a beacon of light—as she senses what I’m feeling. In an instant, she understands the importance. She may have claimed our relationship was never personal, but on some level, it had to be.
Impersonal doesn’t end with being so well understood.
Even if she doesn’t care about my powers, I didn’t tell her to stop caring about me. At least, to some extent, that still stands.
Elegantly, she wraps up her class, dismissing the students. Slowly, they walk past me, and I keep my eyes down, unprepared to take in all of that emotion.
When they’re gone, I race through the rows of messy desks to Ms. Ferner.
She keeps her head down, eyes on a book.
Her gaze doesn’t meet mine again.
“Yes, Estridon?”
“How are—” I cut myself off.
Ms. Ferner looks up.
I suppose there is no time for manners.
“There was a prophecy,” I say instead. “Idelivered a prophecy—and I don’t know what to do about it.”
Ms. Ferner’s emotions go from slightly concerned to entirely suspicious.
“And what was the prophecy?”
I recite it to her, as well as what I learned in the woods while fighting Lucian. I tell her that this prophecy traces back to two people—one prince, and one Fire Folk. As I speak, I question myself; am I only looking for someone to condone my actions? To agree with how I treated Lucian, and how I will treat Desdemona?
“Wendy,” Ms. Ferner sighs, using my first name—which she doesn’t often do. Even if she hadn’t given me that small indicator, I’d know I won’t like what she’s about to say. “Prophecies are not up to the interpreter. I fear that such a warning is left in the hands of those who it was delivered to.”
Leave it up to Desdemona and Lucian?Two people whohaveto die but will never kill each other?
