Page 157 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
There’s no better time than when I’m already aching, I suppose.
“Are you always going to be mad at me?” I ask meekly.
With the arch of an eyebrow, she says, “I’m not mad.”
“Calista—”
“Just put on the damn dress, and let’s get this over with.”
The dress is beautiful. The kind of thing Ma might have picked for me. Though hers would have been a more muted shade of purple. Still, I don’t deserve it.
Do I?
Either way, beautiful does not feel like a thing my battered body deserves—even if the pain is no more than metaphysical.
“We’re running out of time,” Calista reminds me.
I don’t argue any more—with myself or her.
As I tug my uniform off, I turn to face the door, then I pull the glittering purple dress on in its place.
I’m not ready for this. The last time I donned a gown so gorgeous I was in Azaire’s hands.
The boy’s hands.
Azaire’shands.
I should have let him love me sooner. I could have loved him longer. Now, I love a corpse. And I will longer than I loved the man he was.
No.I won’t grieve until I’m avenged. I have to stick to my vow, this time.
As I turn back to face Calista, she glances me up and down, approval like smoke billowing out from her. “Are you ready?”
“One second,” I mutter, leaning over to strap a small pouch to my thigh. The perfect hiding spot for Desdemona’s necklace and my quick escape.
Our plan—vengeance—should be the first thing on my mind.
My promise should be the first thing on my mind.
But I thought holding Azaire would mean hurting him, and in turn, hurting myself. I thought that would be the worst fate.
It’s the last thing I should be thinking, but it’s the first thing I think of: that as perverse as this is, I’d prefer his place over mine.
To be the thing gone, rather than the thing grieving.
I shake my head at my thoughts—stupidly—and when Calista glares at me, I say, “Ready.”
I don’t care what happens to me, as long as I fix what happened to him.
?
It’s sickening how beautiful the ballroom is after the ugly events beyond its borders. A man lost his leg. My boy lost his life.
With every step, the room grows invigorating. At first, it’s sweet. My blood beams—like a light in the night—with vesi and other substances. Then, my heart pounds. My mind races.
Is it the weight of my thoughts?
It’s hard to tell.
