Page 49 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
T
urn the corner and I’m at Azaire’s window. Knock on the window and he will answer. But I don’t knock, I stare. I contemplate. I know how easy it would be to leave.
But when I see Azaire writing at his desk, I know that I’m not ready to walk away.
There’s precision in his emotion as his pen glides along the page. Something that’s almost calculated, mathematical. It’s specific and expressive. There is no other way to describe it buthim.
And I fall into it—silently descending the endless well.
“There is still time to run,”the boy tells me, his words a rope, pulling me back up. He’s right—I want to run. I almost listen.
But this is a trial. This doesn’t have to mean anything.
The smoke of Lucian’s care still clings to me, the scent wafting with every breath.I want that, too.I want what everyone else has.So I plant my feet.
But fear overcomes me—Ican’thave what everyone else has, and I don’t need the boy to tell me. I already know why.
Before I have the chance to give in to fear, torun, Azaire looks up from his black journal. His gaze meets mine, and he smiles.
Turning around is no longer an option.
As he opens his window, his smile grows. “What a surprise.”
The sound of his voice lifts something in me.
“A happy one, I hope?”
Azaire narrows his eyes, teasing. “Horrifically scary, actually.”
I bite my lip, taking a small step back from the window. “Then I better be on my way, huh?”
Before I can move, his hand flashes out—fast and certain—catching my wrist. I look up, breath caught, meeting his gaze.
“Leaving,” he murmurs, “would be more horrific.”
I can’t help but smile.
“This is all it takes to woo you?”the boy taunts.“I could do this in my sleep.”
“Then you should try it sometime.”
Azaire releases my hand, and I step closer. “What are you writing?”
I’m trying to distract myself from the boy. It took a lot of guts for me to walk here today, especially with the boy berating me, telling me what a bad idea this is.
I already know.
But, for once, I don’t want to face this day alone.
Azaire blushes, sliding a book over his notebook. “Nothing.”
It isn’t nothing—the opposite, actually. But he doesn’t want to share with me, and there are a million things I don’t want to share with him. So I leave it be, extending a hand through the window, over his desk and into his room.
“Coming?”
Azaire doesn’t hesitate before slipping his hand into mine. My longing and fear mix in equal measures. I’ve spent years running from this very moment, yet here it is.
It’s found me.
