Page 113 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
“You have unusual powers, Wendy,” she reprimands. “The best way to make strides forward is to study them.”
I meet her gaze, one final time, one last bout of begging. “Please.”
Her face remains stiff. Her mind unchanged.
My hands find her shoulders before I realize I’ve moved. It’s when my nails dig into her skin, pulling blood and keeping her in place, that I know my intentions.
“You want to stand still.”
Her eyes glaze over, as if for a moment, she’s gone entirely blind.
She freezes, still as a statue.
There’s only one thing I can think to command. One set of words that will keep Azaire safe—no matter how much they hurt, no matter the cost. She was my mentor, my only guide for so long. The one who showed me my magic, the one who truly cared enough to help.
I cared for her in the same way she cared for me. Stubborn and unwilling.
But I tear that all away.
“You don’t care about my powers.” I breathe deeply, trying to steady myself amidst the shift in her emotion.
Her interest in my magic drains away—her interest in me. It’s hard to stand, losing what has been a constant for so long.
She’s always cared—perhaps more than I once knew because the absence of it makes me hollow.
I’ve lost Ma, Pa, and now her.
It shatters me to pieces, watching as she lets me go against her will.
Ms. Ferner’s eyes stay open wide as I let go of her shoulders. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve killed her—overrode her mind the way she feared I someday would. Then, I slip away, moving quickly back toward the academy.
Chapter 22
The Best I Never Had
I
shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have done it.
What if I killed her or did some other irreparable damage?
But… what if the same thing happened to Azaire because of her? What if Isavedhim?
I go to Azaire’s next class. Perhaps it’s guilt, or maybe I need a kind hand, but I wait at the door until he sees me. Immediately, he rises. He doesn’t even think twice before walking to me.
When he approaches, I wrap my arms around him. I want to tell him what I did to Ms. Ferner. Yet when he asks, “What’s wrong?” those words don’t slip out of me.
“I was worried about you,” I say instead. “The poison.”
I grip his neck tighter, unsure why I’m lying.
“I’m okay.” His breath slips through my hair.
I pull back, holding his waist as I look up at him. “Can we go back to your suite?”
He answers instantly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Of course.”
We walk together, hands intertwined. My thoughts race past Ms. Ferner. Is she okay? Should I be alerting someone that she might be hurt?
