Page 21 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
“You shouldn’t have opened that door,”the boy says—as if he’s prophetic. As if he foresaw this moment long before I did.
“Go on,” I mutter to Lucian.
“Eighteen years ago, a woman faked her death. Supposedly, your mother knows why. We were told to find her.”
I pick viciously at the fingers of my glove. “Was she the one taken by the Arcanes?”
“Yes.” The remaining words hang uncomfortably on the tip of his tongue, like a stubborn spice that lingers long after the meal. He’s not proud that he told me anything at all. A man who wishes to handle everything on his own. Something I know well.
But I do not find kinship in it.
“What was her name?” I demand.
“Isa Althenia.”
The name rings like the bell of my childhood door—a familiar sound I can barely recall.
When I don’t answer, Lucian grows weary. He needs my help, yet he doesn’t want me involved. It’s nice to know I am not the only one who is a paradox. It still fails to make me feel less alone.
“Because you are alone,”the boy says.“But you need not be lonely. That’s why I’m here.”
I glare at Lucian, confused as to how I feel. Grateful that he’s brought me a piece of my ma? Angry that he didn’t want to share it with me?
“Next time, don’t be vague about matters regarding my mom,” I say. “But you were sent on a fool’s errand.”
“How so?” The worry seeps into more than Lucian’s tone. It’s in his tongue, his skin, and in turn, it’s in mine.
I straighten myself,preparemyself. These are words I hardly say. Words I don’t wish to carry as truth.
But it’s the truth, and denial won’t change a thing.
“My mom is dead.”
Chapter 4
The Beginning of
the End
One Year Ago
I
enter Ms. Ferner’s room for our usual training. I’m not prepared—I rarely am. I worry about what will happen on the day that she pushes me too far, demands that I command her to do something more than feel angry or sad.
Worried for the day that I commit another atrocity.
But as I open the door, Ms. Ferner isn’t what I see. It’s blonde hair tied in a neat braid down a girl’s back, and shaking hands standing where Ms. Ferner ought to be.
“Calista,” I greet her.
We’ve shared a suite for years, and I hardly know her. But she’s a Folk. There’s no reason she should be in here, where they teach the Eunoia.
Then I notice the blood seeping through her blue academy uniform. The shaking breath in my chest, mimicking hers.
I step forward, throwing my bag on the nearest chair. “I can help.”
Calista opens her mouth, but her lips quiver, and no words escape. When she realizes the state she’s in—in front of me, no less—she grows embarrassed.
