Page 97 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
It’s a magic, of sorts.
Calista rolls her eyes as she contemplates. I can almost feel the mechanics of her brain wiring.
“Fine,” she breathes. “I give you my word, Wendy Estridon, that I will not repeat what you say to Lucian Aibek.” She raises her eyebrows, as if saying,go on.
“Or Azaire Wenejad.”
Calista scowls, reluctantly adding, “Or Azaire Wenejad.”
I sigh, leaning against the wall. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
Nor do I want to.
“Figure it out,” she huffs. “I didn’t offer my favor for nothing.”
I expected no less from Calista. I find my words.
“It felt like the end…” My throat tightens. “Of everything.” My eyes sting with tears, and I swipe them away with the back of my hand.
I recite the prophecy with a shudder, then say, “The first line—time fractures with the stone. Maybe we can stop it.”
“Whose prophecy?” Calista asks, her voice casual as she examines her nails—but her emotions are reeling. She’s scared, confused, and already calculating her next move.
I’m sure I’ve trusted the right person. Cunning is practically a synonym for Calista.
Reaching out, I grab her hand, pulling it from her gaze. I lock eyes with her, my voice steady. “You can’t hide from me, Calista.”
She yanks her hand back, her glare darting to my gloved one like it’s something vile. “That’s precisely why I stay away.”
It’s not a lie, there’s just more to the story.
But I already know the name of the chapters.
“It was Desdemona’s prophecy.”
Calista’s eyes widen as a small smile pulls at her lips. There’s a moment of smug righteousness. Then she tips her head back and laughs. It’s not fake, only embellished.
“Oh my gods!” she exclaims, returning her head to its natural position. Beneath her smugness, there’s that familiar feeling of inadequacy creeping back into her.
“Her necklace,” she finishes, as if it’s the obvious conclusion.
My voice is tinged with skepticism as I ask, “What necklace?”
Calista places a hand on her chest, her fingers lightly brushing the fabric. “She wears it…” Her words drop to a whisper as two silhouettes pass the window in the door. Her eyes flick toward them, waiting until they’re out of sight before she speaks again. “She wears it under her shirt. A memor, I think.”
“No.” I shake my head, the prophecy persistently playing inside of me. “It’s more than that.”
“More than a precious stone?” Her eyes narrow to slits, and her tone drips with mockery.
“It’s enough to shatter time…”
Realization slams into me like a pernipe. My breath catches.
Shattertime. Memories. Folk magic. A necklace that looks like a memor, worn by Desdemona, the girl whose prophecy will shatter time.
“It’s the Memorium,” I mutter, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Calista doesn’t agree, not one bit.
