Page 41 of Wicked Ends
That elicits a laugh from her. We turn down another hallway, this one lined with paintings of previous headmistresses, their stern faces at odds with the festive garlands draped beneath their frames. It’s incongruous to see portraits of Helena and Victoria Wickersly hanging there along with the others.
“Did you celebrate Yule? Back when you were...” She trails off.
“Human? Yes, though it was different then.” I pause before a window overlooking the academy grounds, now blanketed in snow.
“How so?”
“It felt more reverent, and less frivolous, I suppose.”
“What was it like?” She leans against the windowsill.
I find myself transported back through centuries, to memories I rarely allow myself to indulge in. “We celebrated the longest night. Fires were lit to call back the sun. There were feasts, of course. Tables laden with game and winter fruits, wines mulled with spices.” I can almost smell it, the cinnamon and clove, roasted venison, the sharpness of wine warmed by the fire. “My father insisted on the old ways. The house would be decked with evergreens and holly to ward off spirits. Candles in every window to guide wayward travelers.”
“Sounds magical,” she says softly.
“It was, in its way.” I look away from the window, back to her. “There were dances, too. Elaborate affairs that lasted until dawn.The women in silk gowns, the men competing for attention like preening peacocks.”
“Did you dance?” She’s smiling now, perhaps imagining me in the finery of a bygone era.
“Reluctantly.” I allow myself a small smile in return. “I preferred to watch from the walls, even then.”
“I bet you were good at it, though. You seem like someone who’d be annoyingly perfect at everything.”
“I was adequate.”
“Translation, you were the best dancer there and everyone knew it.”
I don’t confirm or deny, but my silence seems to amuse her.
“Come,” I say, noticing how she’s still shivering. “There’s a study down this way with a fireplace. Better than standing in drafty corridors.”
She follows without argument, which tells me how truly cold she must be. The study is tucked away on the second floor, a small room lined with bookshelves and furnished with overstuffed chairs that have seen better centuries. A fire already burns in the grate, the room deserted save for us.
Rose makes directly for the fire, holding her hands out toward the flames. “God, that’s better. I swear my bones are still frozen from training with Ash last night.”
I take the chair opposite hers, watching the firelight play across her features. “What does he have you doing?”
“Last night was elemental work. Making fire, putting it out. Over and over and over.” She flexes her fingers. “My hands still smell like smoke.”
“Fire is volatile. Difficult to control.”
“Tell me about it.” She settles deeper into the chair. “He’s ruthless. Won’t let me stop until I get it right, no matter how long it takes.”
“And yet you continue to meet him.”
She glances at me, something defensive in her gaze. “Because it’s working. I’m stronger now. I can protect myself better.”
“I never suggested otherwise.”
She relaxes slightly. “Sorry. I’m just on edge. With everything that’s happened.”
“Understandable.”
We fall into comfortable silence, the crackling of the fire the only sound. Outside the window, snow begins to fall, fat flakes drifting past the glass.
“My mom loved Christmas,” Rose says suddenly, still looking at the fire. “Even when we had nothing, she’d find ways to make it special.”
I remain silent, sensing she needs to speak more than she needs a response.
