Chapter 9 The Sweetest Torture
The Sweetest Torture
Now
T
his time when I go to Lucian and Azaire, I don’t have a plan. Do I tell them Calista can’t remove the glamour, or wait like she asked? Maybe I could get the book to Lucian and let him find his own Folk to deal with it, like he wants. It’s not that I don’t trust Calista, it’s that the boy was right.
If manipulating her emotions is a resort at all, it’s a part of me.
And I already know I’m willing to do it.
But it seems it won’t be an issue for now. When I knock, Azaire opens the door. Without Lucian.
“Hey.” His voice bubbles through my chest like foam.
I stand at the door, right at the threshold, awkwardly balancing at the precipice of the exit. “I um… I’m working on removing the glamour from the book.”
Azaire nods, words lodged in his throat. He wants to talk to me. I have nothing I’m willing to share. Nothing to help him understand my decision.
Telling him I’m saving us both the pain is not often what one hears when they are starting a relationship.
“We should wait for Lucian,” Azaire says at last.
“Yeah,” is all I manage. The rest of my vocabulary gets caught in the spaces between the alphabet.
“He appreciates your help more than he shares,” Azaire tells me, and he means it.
“I’m not doing it for him,” I say, and Azaire shifts, tugging on his beanie. “I’m doing it for me.”
Lucian’s hungry for answers—I might be starving.
Azaire nods, then after a moment, he says, “I love Lucian, more than anyone. But if you didn’t want to be here, I’d tell you to run.”
“That is what someone who cares would say,” the boy murmurs to me.
“I can feel that he cares.”
“Would you like to do anything about it?” the boy asks, but he doesn’t sound happy. He sounds curious.
He feels scared.
“Then why are you here?” I ask. “What’s in it for you?”
Azaire shrugs. “Lucian’s quick to go to extremes.”
“Why are you here?” I repeat the question, taking the opportunity to step fully past the threshold.
He glances at me, standing in his suite, as if he wasn’t sure I ever would again. Finally, he says, “Because I want to help the worlds.”
He truly means it. That’s the most baffling part.
I’ve never felt such selflessness in my life.
“The way things are isn’t right,” Azaire finishes.
I agree, to an extent. As much as I know this life is wrong, I don’t know what could be right.
So, I ask, “What is right?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’d like to.” He smiles a little, meeting my gaze. “That’s why I’m here.”
I smile a little, too, turning to leave.
“Wendy?” Azaire whispers, his voice barely a breath, but what he’s about to say is going to be dangerous.
I glance back at him.
“When you dance at the ball tonight…” He pauses. “Think of me. And I’ll be right there, thinking of you.”
I smile, nodding once, even if I can’t verbally agree.
As I step out of his suite, the boy asks, “Do you like him?”
“Yes,” I answer.
?
A girl twirls by in her silver dress. Another with blue. I do nothing more than watch.
My gaze catches on the girl in the gold, sticking out like a candle in the dark: Desdemona. Always scared. Perpetually steeped in fear, like a tea bag drowning in water. It’s hard to be around her. If I didn’t feel everyone, I think always being scared would be the worst fate.
Especially when you’re in denial of it.
She thinks she’s angry.
More partners pass, dancing and smiling. Two things I’m forbidden from. These fundraisers are mandatory to attend, but I am not allowed to interact. The faculty sees my power much like I do: a disease. There is no cure, but the gloves contain it, to an extent.
They mask the symptoms. They do not cure the sickness.
If I were to dance, someone could still touch the skin of my wrist on accident. Though, touching my wrist wouldn’t be quite as damning. Eunoias’ hands are the conduits of our power. My sitting out is a precaution. There may be ways to fight compulsion—but not mine.
Mine is certain compliance.
Whether or not someone touches me, I could command their minds, which is exactly what they’re afraid of.
The gloves are meant to hold me in place, but I sit willingly in my cage.
“I could touch your wrist,” the boy whispers from my mind, his voice low and dangerous, as if he’s trying to tempt me.
Suddenly desperate for company, I close my eyes. The boy stands before me. His hair is brighter in the ballroom, shining like twilight. He reaches for my hand but touches my wrist with a mischievous smile.
“See?” he says. “I can touch you.”
“I see.” A subtle frown shapes my lips. “But you’re not real.”
“I am very real, and you are very beautiful.” The boy picks up my hand and bows. “A dance, my love?”
I look past him at the empty ballroom. Before I entered the landscape of my mind, this vast room was full of people. Now, the moonlight shines in at odd degrees, not truly illuminating anything. It’s more akin to a streak of silver on a canvas.
“It’s too empty,” I say, pressing my lips together. “Too depressing.”
The boy smirks, raising a hand and snapping his fingers. The people return, though their faces morph and blur. I can’t get a good look at any of them, but I try.
“Stop,” the boy says, reaching out and grabbing my chin. He gently guides my gaze back to his. “You focus on everyone else too often. Let tonight be for us. You haven’t even told me the color of your dress.”
He takes a long stride to the left, and I follow. My dress billows around my legs as he spins me through the room.
When we finally slow, I ask, “Told you? Can’t you see it?”
The boy looks down at my gown, shaking his head. “My world is black and white, until you paint the picture.”
Confused, I nod. I’ve had him in my mind for years, how could I have not known this?
“It’s silver,” I tell him as our dance finds its rhythm again—his hand steady at the small of my back, mine resting lightly in his.
His eyes trace the gown, lingering longer this time. “It suits you.”
“It isn’t meant to.”
It’s the color of Ilyria—there isn’t a choice as to whether or not I like it.
The boy leans in, his breath warm against my cheek, just enough to unsettle the air between us. “Perhaps that’s the trouble,” he murmurs. “Even that which you never wanted finds a way to belong to you.”
“I could think of many,” I say, my voice quieter now, colored by the ache of memory.
“Don’t offend me, my love.”
“Not you. You know I’m happy to have you.”
The boy smirks, but there is nothing content about his gaze. He stares at me like he’s losing me and wants to see me thoroughly before I go.
Then he speaks again, quietly.
“Are you happy to be here tonight?”
The people around us continue to dance, but there is no noise. No bustle. Just marionettes with porcelain smiles.
“No,” I answer honestly.
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t do anything.”
He lifts my hand and spins me, his fingers grazing my palm. The silver of my dress swirls around me. When I’ve finished, he draws me back in, steadying me with both hands. This time, his smile is more earnest, a toothy grin. There’s a light in his eyes again, like I’ve given it back to him.
And without meaning to, I smile back.
“We’re doing something right now,” he murmurs. “Aren’t we?”
“Yes, but—”
He cuts me off with a gentle tug, pulling me closer to him. “But what? Can you not be content in your own mind?”
He leads with long strides, and I follow, willingly. The brush of his thumb against mine, the pressure of his hand at my waist—I feel all of it. And I enjoy it.
I enjoy doing the things that I only ever get to watch—even if it’s in my mind.
Yet, I still shake my head and say, “No, not really.”
“I know that’s not true,” he says. “I’ve held you in my arms, and you have smiled.”
I roll my eyes, making sure he can see. “Okay, so perhaps I can be content. But I cannot be satisfied.”
He slows the dance—barely. Enough to draw me in closer.
His lips brush the edge of a smile.
“I do not satisfy you?” the boy asks.
I laugh, thinking it must be a joke. But when I meet his gaze again, I see that I missed the mark. “I don’t see how—”
“Then make me physical.”
My feet stop moving under me. The boy tries to tug us back into the dance, but I am much stronger. We are in my mind, after all. I don’t budge.
“What?” I shudder.
Have I misheard him?
The boy frowns. I don’t see how he could be upset; he must have known this would be my reaction.
“You say I am not real, but I am very real.” He raises a hand, the edges of his fingers blurring like the people dancing around us. “What I am not is tangible.”
I stare at him, open-mouthed. I wish I could close it, but even in my mind, I am the expressive Little Thorn.
“I don’t have the ability to do something like that,” I say.
“You can, my love,” the boy says. “The things they’ve always said about you—prodigal daughter, most powerful—those things are true things. You could bring me to life. I could hold you beyond our confines—”
I don’t give myself a moment to think. I open my eyes, escaping. But even as I watch the real ballroom, the clear people and the true noise, I can feel the boy in my head. I’ve spent years with him as my only companion. Have I taken it too far?
Is it possible for this figment of my imagination to grow attached to me?
I contemplate going back to the boy, asking him these questions myself. But I need to think. Making him tangible would defeat the purpose. If he were real, I wouldn’t be able to handle his companionship.
Would I?
As if I’m lost at sea and he is the lifeline, my eyes drift toward Azaire. He’s back to dancing with his fair share of girls. Or, I suppose, he’s been doing that the entire time. I’m the one who left.
There are girls I’ve never seen, girls I’ve seen a million times, and none I’ve ever spoken to.