Page 22 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
Then, tentatively, she nods.
Carefully, I guide Calista to a desk.It’s only a little cut,I tell myself. It isn’t deadly—it isn’t beyond my control.
It’s only a little blood.
Calista takes off her academy jacket, revealing the gaping wound in her forearm. Nearly to the bone. I almost faint—but I think it’s her dizziness. Now, I understand why she won’t speak.
She’s worried she’ll bleed out.
I rise, running to Ms. Ferner’s stash of herbs and quickly rubbing some into Calista’s wound. She bites back a scream, and the ball lodges in my throat, begging for release.
Carefully, I take off a glove, healing her wound until I’m sure I’m going to pass out, too. When I finish, I slump back in the chair, my head falling back. I’m suspended in a moment of exhaustion. The weight of her wound has drained me.
It’s silent—nothing but ragged breaths—for a long while.
Finally, Calista says, “Thank you.”
I pull myself upright, but Calista is staring at her arm, pinching the stitched skin.
“What happened?” My voice is barely a breath.
She glares at me. “You have no right to ask.”
Her tone is angry. Her emotions, not so much.
I raise an eyebrow, holding her gaze, but I don’t respond. I pick up my bag and start toward the door.
“My apologies,” Calista calls once I’ve nearly reached the exit.
Glancing over my shoulder, a faint smile tugs at my lips. “That’s a new one.”
“So are people walking away from me.”
“Well, I’m going to”—I gesture toward the door—“unless you want to talk.”
I know she does; I’m only giving her a way out.
“It’s my magic,” she says. “Life has been difficult recently and…”
She raises her hand, her fingers poised and elegant—her magic not so. The ball of energy forms in her palm, turbulent. She’s an Air Folk—controller of wind. Those energy balls should be clear, pristine, but hers is nearly gray, as if the wind won’t cease in her control.
“The emotion, it’s… hard to manage.” Calista stares absently into the ball of air.
I sit at a desk, multiple feet away from her.
Worry hits me—her worry that I’m scared of her. I am, but not for the reason she thinks. If she were to lose control of her magic, I could subdue her with a word.
It’s something else I’m scared of. Something she wouldn’t guess.
“That’s how you cut your skin to the bone?” I ask.
Calista tilts her head to the side, but she finds my question amusing. Her little sphere of gray wind isn’t going to gash flesh.
She rolls her eyes as she says, “I shattered the skylight in the training room.” Then she looks away. “I came to Ms. Ferner because the healers of Visnatus report to my family. My mistake… they could deem me unfit for the crown.”
Her words are bitter; she fears not getting the crown.
“I can help,” I say. She narrows her eyes, skeptical. “My magic is turbulent, too. That’s whyI’mhere.”
