Page 3 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I fail to distinguish my feelings and choices from other peoples’. Whatistruth, in that case?
Finally, I mutter, “I don’t know what that is.”
“Then that’s your first belief, Ms. Estridon. That your truth is unknowable. And that’s a prison you built for yourself.”
?
A cup falls from my shaking fingers.
No, not my shaking fingers.
Yes, my shaking fingers.
The glass shatters at my feet.
My fingersareshaking—but it isn’tmyoverwhelm.
I watch myself in the mirror, green eyes glowing from the spikes of emotion around me—the other girls in the suite. It’s our newest suitemate that has me acting up. Has mymagicacting up. I’ve grown used to Calista and Aralia, like background noise I can tune out unless something major is happening. Most of the time, I manipulate their emotions just enough to soften the edges.
Aralia’s always carried a quiet disappointment in the world, a hint of rebellion, but lately there’s something different—curiosity. And I think I know why. Her new roommate, Desdemona, is a bundle of nerves. Incessant, almost whining—for as much as pure emotion can. I’ve never believed that people can’t sense emotions, at least to some degree. So I’m guessing Aralia’s sensing hers.
Calista is, as always, annoyed. She doesn’t want to go tonight and celebrate her forced marriage to Lucian, though she knows the power of appearance.
I’m surprised she’s in our suite, rather than getting ready with her friends. I think of walking to her room, asking her to do my eyeliner or offering her a skirt to wear. I wish I could. But that bridge sank long ago.
Instead, I do my own eyeliner and wear the skirt I used to lend her.
It was nice that she would ask. She’s a princess—she could get any skirt she wanted. She may seem harsh, but a hard shell often protects a soft interior.
And I know hers.
By the time I make it to the door, ready to leave, I flinch. Unable to open it.
“Wendy,”the voice in my mind says, his voice soft, delicate.
Disappointed.
“I know,”I respond to the boy. That’s what I call him. That’s all he is.
The boy in my head.
“Come to me.”
I do as he says, closing my eyes and entering the world of my mind. The four walls of my room slip away, and I fall into the woods—right beyond where the party will be.
He lies next to me in the grass.
“This is where you want to meet?”I ask him, staring into his big green eyes.
He didn’t always have them. In the beginning, he was nothing but a wisp of smoke, the shadow of a person. With the years, he’s taken shape, nearly growing into something real.
“You should go tonight,”he answers—though, not much of an answer, admittedly.
“I don’t want to.”I flip onto my back, looking up at the stars and away from him, but waiting to be convinced.
“You do.”
I’ve yet to name him. To the both of us, he’s “the boy.” On some days—like this one—that lack of a title makes him feel less tangible.
