Page 60 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
She rests the book in her hands, palms open. Her face is an empty canvas—blank, serene, almost devoid of emotion. There’s no tension, no hint of anticipation or expectation. Calistaknowsshe’s going to succeed—because Itoldher to.
As with every time before, a bright, golden light spills over the book, casting warm halos across the room. Its edges flicker like a flame. Slowly, the book lifts from her hands, suspended in the air as it shimmers between solid and spectral—less an object, more an idea in motion, a blur of possibility.
This book could be anything. A map. A memory. A warning. I hold my breath on the precipice of revelation, my heartthudding with the weight of what I might learn—what Ma knew, what she carried, what she kept hidden.
Then, clarity. The image sharpens in an instant, as though I’ve put on glasses. And from the golden haze, a single sheet of paper flutters down, spiraling delicately through the air before coming to rest at my feet.
Someone went through all the trouble of a permanent glamour for a piece of parchment?
I reach for the paper, but Calista snatches it before I can. I sit back, allowing her to bring the page to her gaze. If this page came from Folkara, she has the best chance of knowing what it is.
Breath catches in my chest as I feel for every shift of her emotion. If this were the usual Calista, she would be excited to have completed the spell. With the borrowed confidence, she feels nothing.
This was the expected outcome, after all.
Yet, as her eyes peruse the page, the feeling of uneasy betrayal fills me.
The unshakable confidence I lent her has broken.
Calista’s voice trembles as she meets my gaze. “You’re working with him.” The pain in her eyes—the pain in mine—feels like someone is taking a burning knife to a healed wound. “You said this was your mom’s!”
“Calista,” I say, reaching out—not just with my voice, but with my energy, desperate to tether her unraveling emotions before they slip completely out of reach. But I’m too slow.
She’s already moving, hands trembling as she grabs the paper. And then—she tears it.
“No!” I lunge forward as the first harsh rip begins to sound.
Only, the paper doesn’t tear. It doesn’t even budge.
The parchment holds firm, utterly untouched, as if reality itself refuses her rage. She stares down, stunned.
Then her fury slams into me like a wave, threatening to drown me. I reach into that storm and strip the emotion from her—stealing it, subduing it, swallowing it down into myself until the air stills.
“Don’t do that!” Calista shouts, knowing well what it feels like to have her emotion stolen by me.
I release my hold on her at once.
“It’s not what you think,” I say gently, raising my hands, signaling to her that I’ve ceased using my power.
“So you’renotworking with Lucian?”
“What’s on the paper?” I ask, deflecting, as I take a step back.
Calista frowns. “You know.”
I shake my head. “I don’t.”
“A Weapon.” Her tone is harsh, laced with venom.
My face falls. My body almost does too. Why would Ma have anything to do with the Weapon? Ma, a Eunoia, the very last of us who would help create a Weapon of destruction. Ma, who believes in peace and healing and learning, never destroying.
Ma.
I manage a meek whisper. “You’re lying.”
I feel ready to pounce when she smiles.Pounce. I’ve never thought of violence the way I’m thinking of it now—as something I’m willing to partake in.
Calista’s eyebrow raises. “Fun, isn’t it? Finding out who your parents really are.” She shoves the piece of paper into my chest with enough force to knock the wind out of me. “Get out.”
