Chapter 7 An Open Book with Smeared Ink
An Open Book with
Smeared Ink
I
wait until Desdemona and Aralia have left the suite, then I plant my feet on the floor, walking to Calista’s door.
Aside from Desdemona, Calista is the most difficult to be around. Turbulence is her emotion, always on the verge of a freak out. Whereas Desdemona is scared, acting like it’s anger.
Fear is the worst emotion.
Something about those words wake the boy up. He says, “What will you do if she does not agree?”
I exhale, closing my eyes and following him into the realm of my mind.
Today, it’s dark here. Shadows overcast every object, blurring the edges.
But the boy who stands before me is entirely material.
His features are far from smudged: he is fully fleshed out.
His sculpted nose is like Azaire’s and his hair is like Lucian’s—though in the darkness, it almost looks blue.
I meet his gaze. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Yes, you do.” A smile spreads across his full lips. “If you do not want to know, that is one thing. But you cannot pretend you do not.”
I know what he’s insinuating, and I shake my head. “I wouldn’t control someone’s emotions. That isn’t who I am.”
“My love,” he murmurs. “What do you think I am?”
When I hear Calista’s door swing open, my eyes flutter open. She stands before me, rolling her eyes as she glances up to meet my gaze. Her long golden hair hangs down her body, which she doesn’t often allow. Most girls in Visnatus have their hair braided at all times. It’s proper.
“What do you want?” Calista asks. She sounds annoyed, but I know she’s not. We have our history.
“I need you to strip a glamour.” I hold her gaze, making sure she knows this is important. “From something that belonged to my mom.”
She presses her lips together, nodding as she runs a hand through her hair. Reluctantly, she mutters, “Come in.”
It’s been nearly a year since I was in her room. It looks different—more plain. She’s taken down the art and stripped the room of the personality it once held. Now it’s beige walls, beige bedding, and new beige furniture.
Different.
“Make this quick,” Calista demands.
But she cares; I feel it, her warmth in my chest. It’s the only reason I’m able to hand her the book. To show her the view that was once my ma’s.
Calista examines the book, flipping it around in her hands. Then she looks at me, her doubt tearing at my chest. Clutching my heart. It’s the same fear of inadequacy she’s always had. Though it feels stronger than ever before.
“The glamour’s strong,” Calista says. “I don’t know that I’ll be able to lift it.”
“You’re stronger than you think,” I remind her. It feels like I could almost slip back in time. Into my body, mind, and soul from a year ago. Those measly months of friendship.
Calista takes a deep, shaking breath. Then she closes her eyes. I try to look away so I don’t have to feel the claws of her doubt. But this moment means too much. My gaze is important.
There’s a softness in her, trying to dull the sharp edge of fear. Two sides of her—tenderness and terror—wrestling for control. She’s trying to believe in herself, and it’s working.
Her exhales come out unsteady. Her head begins to tilt.
Then it happens.
The book in her hands dissolves into yellow light, lifting off her palms, suspended in midair. It flickers—book, then something smaller—back and forth, like a glitch in the universe.
She’s about to do it—get me answers, tell me why Ma had materials from Folkara. If she was involved in the Weapon and its conception.
Then the book falls, the light subsides, and nothing more happens.
“Did you—”
“No,” Calista cuts me off, running her fingers through loose hair. “Just give me time.”
“You almost had it.” My tone is gentle.
“Do not speak calmly of what you know nothing about!” Her head snaps up, eyes dark with frustration before she collapses on her bed.
“Get out.”
“Calista—” I start, but a sudden gust of wind sweeps through the room, silencing me. The furniture trembles. The windows groan in their frames. My breath catches, but Calista doesn’t look at me. She stares at the floor, her gaze distant as her irises glow yellow.
As she steadies her breathing, the wind slow fades, retreating with her anger.
“I’ll work on it.” Her voice is strained.
“Thank you.” I step toward the door, my words feeling inadequate.
I don’t think I should leave. I wouldn’t have a year ago. But Calista doesn’t want me here, so I exit, shutting myself in my room.
Sitting on my bed, I focus on the plants on my windowsill, at the leaves spilling from their pots. As much as I try to focus on their life, the tension leaks from me, tears clinging to my eyes.
So I close them.
I’m still on my bed, still in my room—only now, I’m not alone. The boy is next to me.
His presence steadies me as he pulls me close to him, his hand stroking my back.
“You haven’t gotten a dress yet,” he whispers. A kind way to divert my attention, but it doesn’t work.
“What if Calista can’t lift the glamour? What if I never find out what Ma was involved in?”
His fingers glide along my shoulders. “You know Calista is powerful. Give her time.”
Calista doesn’t need time. With a word, I could change her mind. Make her want to lift the glamour. More than that—make her believe she can.
Isn’t that the easiest way to get something done?
I shake my head at the boy. “Maybe time isn’t what she needs.”
I don’t realize how the words sound until they’ve left my lips. Instantly, I hope he didn’t hear. But even if I hadn’t said it, he would’ve known. He is me.
“I thought that wasn’t you,” the boy whispers.
“It isn’t.” The words are unconvincing to even myself, so how could I convince him? I wipe my cheeks, even though there are no tears. I was crying in real life, not in my mind. “It will be a last resort.”
“If it’s a resort at all, it’s a part of you.”
I turn to face him, and with a flick of my finger, his image dissipates like smoke. Sitting alone in the room of my mind, I sigh.