Page 35 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
Smeared Ink
I
wait until Desdemona and Aralia have left the suite, then I plant my feet on the floor, walking to Calista’s door.
Aside from Desdemona, Calista is the most difficult to be around. Turbulence is her emotion, always on the verge of a freak out. Whereas Desdemona is scared, acting like it’s anger.
Fear is the worst emotion.
Something about those words wake the boy up. He says,“What will you do if she does not agree?”
I exhale, closing my eyes and following him into the realm of my mind. Today, it’s dark here. Shadows overcast every object, blurring the edges. But the boy who stands before me is entirely material. His features are far from smudged: he is fully fleshed out. His sculpted nose is like Azaire’s and his hair is like Lucian’s—though in the darkness, it almost looks blue.
I meet his gaze.“I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Yes, you do.”A smile spreads across his full lips.“If you do not want to know, that is one thing. But you cannot pretend you do not.”
I know what he’s insinuating, and I shake my head.“I wouldn’t control someone’s emotions. That isn’t who I am.”
“My love,”he murmurs.“What do you think I am?”
When I hear Calista’s door swing open, my eyes flutter open. She stands before me, rolling her eyes as she glances up to meet my gaze. Her long golden hair hangs down her body, which she doesn’t often allow. Most girls in Visnatus have their hair braided at all times. It’s proper.
“What do you want?” Calista asks. She sounds annoyed, but I know she’s not. We have our history.
“I need you to strip a glamour.” I hold her gaze, making sure she knows this is important. “From something that belonged to my mom.”
She presses her lips together, nodding as she runs a hand through her hair. Reluctantly, she mutters, “Come in.”
It’s been nearly a year since I was in her room. It looks different—more plain. She’s taken down the art and stripped the room of the personality it once held. Now it’s beige walls, beige bedding, and new beige furniture.
Different.
“Make this quick,” Calista demands.
But she cares; I feel it, her warmth in my chest. It’s the only reason I’m able to hand her the book. To show her the view that was once my ma’s.
Calista examines the book, flipping it around in her hands. Then she looks at me, her doubt tearing at my chest. Clutching my heart. It’s the same fear of inadequacy she’s always had. Though it feels stronger than ever before.
“The glamour’s strong,” Calista says. “I don’t know that I’ll be able to lift it.”
“You’re stronger than you think,” I remind her. It feels like I could almost slip back in time. Into my body, mind, and soul from a year ago. Those measly months of friendship.
Calista takes a deep, shaking breath. Then she closes her eyes. I try to look away so I don’t have to feel the claws of her doubt. But this moment means too much. My gaze is important.
There’s a softness in her, trying to dull the sharp edge of fear. Two sides of her—tenderness and terror—wrestling for control. She’s trying to believe in herself, and it’s working.
Her exhales come out unsteady. Her head begins to tilt.
Then it happens.
The book in her hands dissolves into yellow light, lifting off her palms, suspended in midair. It flickers—book, then something smaller—back and forth, like a glitch in the universe.
She’s about to do it—get me answers, tell me why Ma had materials from Folkara. If she was involved in the Weapon and its conception.
Then the book falls, the light subsides, and nothing more happens.
“Did you—”
