Page 44 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
eeping my distance proves impossible.
Azaire is brought to class once more, his presence commanding despite the fresh wound along his cheek. He weaves between the long tables—strewn with herbs and vials—until he reaches me.
His cut isn’t as severe as the last time, but it’s enough to draw a stark line across his otherwise flawless skin. The room falls into a tense hush as we prepare for today’s lesson: working on aesthetic healing.
It’s important, Ms. Ferner said before the Nepenthes arrived,for Royals and government officials. They must always appear strong—unmarked.
My task is to restore Azaire’s skin, erasing the evidence of pain without leaving a trace. If I fail, that wound will become a permanent reminder of this moment. A record of how the universe chews him up and spits him out at its leisure etched into his face forever.
In some cruel way, it’s a mirror of me. The scar along my chin holds the memory of Ma.
Only his memory wouldn’t be a death—it would be the moment that the academy took him, doing what they pleased with his body.
Azaire rests in the stool beside me, the jars on the wooden table rattling as he scoots closer.
Despite everything, I can tell something’s changed between us. As he sits, his gaze lingers longer. His hands hover just above my skin—as if he heeds my warnings but aches to defy them.
In turn, I do the same.
I clear my throat, scooting closer. Because I have to heal him—not because I long for his nearness.
But I do.
The room isn’t as bad today. The pain around me is bearable. None of the wounds inflicted upon the Nepenthes are deadly. They’re merely for aesthetics.
This time.
I grind the gotu kola into a fine powder, adding just enough water to form a thick, greenish paste. With careful fingers, I coat Azaire’s wound, hoping to erase the memory of the cut before it has time to settle into a scar.
With every stroke, my hands tremble more.
“It’s okay,” Azaire whispers, his smile creasing his skin. “There’s no way I’m dying this time. It’s just a little cut.”
As I pull my hand away, my glove is coated in red. “And just a little blood,” I mutter.
I wipe off my gloves, raising my hands again.
Azaire gently catches my wrists. His grasp stills my trembling.
His eyes meet mine. “Feel me, not everyone else.”
For a moment, I stumble. My hand stays in the air. My wrist stays in his hand, my skin just beneath my shirt sleeve. My head tilts to the side, staring at him in awe.
“I always feel you.” I hardly realize the words are coming out. “It’s what I was telling you at the ball.” I shake my head, trying to shake the words from me, but they come out anyhow.
Expressive Little Thorn.
“In philosophy…” I trail off. “You always have something to say, but you never do.”
Azaire shrugs with a smile, then lets go of my hand. It returns to my side, denying the part of me that wishes he held on.
“I’m just holding my insights close,” he jokes. “I can’t have someone in class stealing my ideas.”
I smile, a small laugh escaping me. “Steal your ideas?” I ask, still smiling. “So you want to be a philosopher?”
Azaire nods. “I do.”
“My mom is a philosopher,” I say, before I realize that those aren’t the right words.
