Page 156 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I shake my head. “You don’t understand—”
“Your magic has always been unpredictable,” she says—so matter-of-fact. Clinical. As if it means nothing to her.
Because it doesn’t. It’s simply something she observed. Never something she invested in.
Ms. Ferner continues, “We cannot trust that you got the prophecy right, nor can we be certain that you fully understand it. However, I do commend you for the strength you’ve shown. It’s fair to see you stand for something.”
I step back, looking at Ms. Ferner sideways. My magic may be unpredictable—but it’sstrong. It always has been.
It’s why it killed Xander.
How can she not understand what the prophecy means? Is it because of what I stole from her?
“My magic may have been unpredictable in the past,” I argue, my heart gutting itself when she doesn’t care. “But I’ve learned discipline. I killed a pernipe!”
Ms. Ferner flinches at my words. “You mustn’t walk around screaming that.”
“Why not? I deserve credit—”
“Creditwill not be what you receive,” she reprimands me. “You’ll be ostracized. No one wants a Eunoia who kills. It goes directly against what we are.”
I feel her words like a weight on my chest. It’s not as if I was unaware of this—it’s that it doesn’t make sense.
“But that’s what I don’t understand,” I press. “How are weallthe same thing? Yes, Eunoias bring life. Why can’t we end it, as well?”
Ms. Ferner rises, shaking her head as she presses her hands against her wooden desk. “This academy is preparing you for the universe at large—how to survive within it under those in power. If they want you to be a life-bringer, that is what you must be.”
“But—”
“I told you once, there is no space for revolution.”
“I’m not seeking revolution—”
“Wendy,” she hisses. “Do not even speak the word unless you are willing to suffer the consequences.”
?
I take a deep, shaking breath, and all I say is, “Yes ma’am.”
My body is thoroughly battered—as if I’ve lain in the center of the hall, taking foot after foot to my ribs, my stomach, my face. My mind is covered in bruises. My thoughts are bleeding.
It’s long after the academy day and time for the Collianth Ball when I knock at Calista’s door. Donning a shimmering pastel yellow gown, she glances at me once, scanning from head to toe—disapproving of my dark blue academy uniform.
“You didn’t get a dress?” She says it kindly, but there’s small peeks of anger beneath.
I think she will always be angry with me.
No, I didn’t get a dress—there wasn’t any time. Not between the shallow aches that pierce through me with every breath. The longing to be anything other than me.
The grief I promised myself I wouldn’t feel.
“I didn’t have time.” I shrug.
Calista shakes her head, walking to the back of the room and opening her large wardrobe doors. She sighs as she searches her closet, pulling out a pastel purple dress. With annoyance, she throws the gown on her bed, and I pick it up obediently. As she glares at me, she crosses her arms over her chest, waiting impatiently.
I should be putting the gown on. But there’s something more happening.
Something I’ve been waiting to face.
