Page 39 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I’ve never felt such selflessness in my life.
“The way things are isn’t right,” Azaire finishes.
I agree, to an extent. As much as I know this life is wrong, I don’t know what could be right.
So, I ask, “What is right?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’d like to.” He smiles a little, meeting my gaze. “That’swhy I’m here.”
I smile a little, too, turning to leave.
“Wendy?” Azaire whispers, his voice barely a breath, but what he’s about to say is going to be dangerous.
I glance back at him.
“When you dance at the ball tonight…” He pauses. “Think of me. And I’ll be right there, thinking of you.”
I smile, nodding once, even if I can’t verbally agree.
As I step out of his suite, the boy asks,“Do you like him?”
“Yes,”I answer.
?
A girl twirls by in her silver dress. Another with blue. I do nothing more than watch.
My gaze catches on the girl in the gold, sticking out like a candle in the dark: Desdemona. Always scared. Perpetually steeped in fear, like a tea bag drowning in water. It’s hard to be around her. If I didn’t feel everyone, I think always being scared would be the worst fate.
Especially when you’re in denial of it.
She thinks she’s angry.
More partners pass, dancing and smiling. Two things I’m forbidden from. These fundraisers are mandatory to attend, but I am not allowed to interact. The faculty sees my power much like I do: a disease. There is no cure, but the gloves contain it, to an extent.
They mask the symptoms. They do not cure the sickness.
If I were to dance, someone could still touch the skin of my wrist on accident. Though, touching my wrist wouldn’t be quite as damning. Eunoias’ hands are the conduits of our power. My sitting out is a precaution. There may be ways to fight compulsion—but not mine.
Mine is certain compliance.
Whether or not someone touches me, I could command their minds, which is exactly what they’re afraid of.
The gloves are meant to hold me in place, but I sit willingly in my cage.
“Icould touch your wrist,”the boy whispers from my mind, his voice low and dangerous, as if he’s trying to tempt me.
Suddenly desperate for company, I close my eyes. The boy stands before me. His hair is brighter in the ballroom, shininglike twilight. He reaches for my hand but touches my wrist with a mischievous smile.
“See?”he says.“I can touch you.”
“I see.”A subtle frown shapes my lips.“But you’re not real.”
“Iam very real, andyouare very beautiful.”The boy picks up my hand and bows.“A dance, my love?”
I look past him at the empty ballroom. Before I entered the landscape of my mind, this vast room was full of people. Now, the moonlight shines in at odd degrees, not truly illuminating anything. It’s more akin to a streak of silver on a canvas.
“It’s too empty,”I say, pressing my lips together.“Too depressing.”
