Page 69 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I don’t answer, and Jasper looks at Pa, still sitting at the dining table.
“He is,” Pa says.
Jasper looks between us, his smile faltering. He feels the animosity—and other leftover emotions—that lingers between us. No one says anything more.
When Jasper nods, I see how much he’s started to look like Pa. The same lean build, the same creases in his chin when he frowns, the same dimples. But it’s the smile that stops me. A smile I haven’t seen since Ma died.
It hits me how much I’ve missed. Years have passed, lives have moved on, and I wasn’t there to see any of it. They weren’t there to see mine, either.
It’s been a sorry excuse for a life, anyhow.
I can only hope Jasper continues to carry what Ma did—a way to keep things light, even while bearing the heaviness.
Then Terran enters the room, every inch my opposite, yet still a twin in appearance. His gaze meets mine, a scowl already etched into his face. He looks like the angry little kid he once was when his eyes narrow.
When Cassiues joins us, we sit around the table and begin the meal, but Pa doesn’t look at me. Terran continues to scowl. Jasper tries to include me in conversation, and Cassius smiles sometimes, but I keep my head down more often than not.
Every time Pa looks up, I feel full of sorrow.
I can more than imagine why.
Chapter 15
Maybe Paper Is Painless
T
he first thing I do when I return to Visnatus is search for Lucian. For better or worse, we’re kin now. Kindred spirits. What he wants, I need. What he needs, I want.
He is my partner, by proxy of a forced hand. Shackles of the past tie us together.
But when I reach his suite, I only find Azaire.
I guess it’s his suite, too.
It doesn’t seem right to look him in the eye—not after I’ve let myself trust him. If I look at him now, I might tell him the truth. I might put him in danger.
I look right past him, asking, “Where’s Lucian?” My voice is close to shattering. My mind is close to shaking its way out of my body.
I only wish to keep Azaire out of this, if I can manage it.
“What is it?” He reaches for my gloved hand. Stilling me. Forcing me to look into his eyes while tears stream down mine.
“Would you rather tell him than me?”the boy asks.
In my mind, I roll my eyes.“You know I’d tell you anything.”
I can feel the boy smile.“Yes. And I’d listen to anything, so long as it’s your voice I’m hearing.”
His words writhe with romance, but I shake him away. I have a real person in front of me. A real person who meets my gaze.
“Something no one’s brave enough to admit,” I whisper the words I’ve carried for so long. “It’s my fault she died.”
My family won’t admit it, but they all think it. Ifeelthem think it, every time.
Strong child, chosen one, most powerful failure.
Maybe they immortalized my room so they could remember who I used to be, instead of what I became the day Ma died.
