Page 162 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I twirl the stone between my fingers, watching it closely for signs of power. “Differently from you, I think. It’s not Folk magic.”
“But it’s holdingmemories,” Calista insists.
So there’s a degree of Folk magic involved.
And definitely Memorium magic, whichisFolk magic. Their world is where this Soul Stone came from, made to balance theirmagic. I just don’t understand how the stone has been tampered with. It doesn’t feel like any magic I’ve ever known—and I’ve known them all.
I hand the stone back to Calista. “Can you show me?”
She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Inadequacy hits its peak, and I remind her, “You can do it.”
“I know I can,” Calista snaps. But she doesn’t know it, and she reads the pity in my gaze, not wanting to hear it. “Don’t.” She lifts two fingers to my temples—conceding.
Shecando it. I know it.
I close my eyes.
It’s a bumpy beginning—a blurry picture. Then, I’m standing in what must be Desdemona’s body. She can’t be older than fourteen. She looks at a woman as she holds her hands.
Gods, the woman looks so familiar. I swear I’ve seen her before.
The door to their home trembles, just as I realize who the woman is.
“Isa!” a voice shouts. A voice I never thought I’d hear again. A voice I dare to recognize. “Isa open up!”
Ma.
Desdemona’s mom—Isa—opens the door.
And I stare at the voice I never thought I’d hear again. A face I never could imagine quite right. Unmarred and beautiful. Restored to past glory.
I choke up, but Desdemona’s body doesn’t follow me into sensation.
My mom wraps her arms around Isa.
Why would Desdemona’s necklace have a memory of my mom?
“What are you doing here?” Isa asks, holding onto both of Ma’s arms. The way I long to.
I watch, standing in Desdemona’s body. I have no control over it, yet I somehow swear my mouth is agape.
“You weren’t supposed to come for months,” Isa finishes.
“They know she lives,” Ma says. “King Easton—he’s looking for her. He thinks he can power the weapon before the Arcanes do.”
Isa looks at me—at Desdemona—like I’m both a nuisance and the object of all her love.
The breath rips from my chest, like it’s been stolen.
This body—Desdemona—is Isa’s daughter.She’s her daughter.
She’s my mom’s best friend’s daughter.
I shake my head. It doesn’t work.
“We need to leave,” is all Isa says to me—no, to Desdemona. Then she rests a hand on Ma’s shoulder. “Thank you, Lo—”
“Tell me nothing,” Ma interrupts. I try to focus on the scene in front of me. “I don’t know what they’ll do to me if they believe I hold information.” Ma reaches up to grab Isa’s cheek. She holds her so tenderly, the way she used to hold me. Tears prick at her eyes. “I can’t promise that you will see me again.”
