Chapter 29 A Ghost Made of Memories
A Ghost Made of
Memories
L
ucian doesn’t care about the prophecy. The boy doesn’t care about the prophecy.
The boy is me.
The boy is the worst of me—
No.
The boy is me.
Azaire isn’t here to care about the prophecy.
Calista has a vague understanding.
I need a Eunoia, then. That’s it.
I storm into Ms. Ferner’s classroom. There’s a group of students—likely two years below me—listening as she talks about the nature of healing.
After the last time we spoke—after what I did to her—it’s out of line to barge in now.
To interrupt her class. But she once helped me maintain my power, and I need that help now.
Ms. Ferner glances around the class, slowly bringing her gaze to mine. Her eyes begin to glow—a beacon of light—as she senses what I’m feeling. In an instant, she understands the importance. She may have claimed our relationship was never personal, but on some level, it had to be.
Impersonal doesn’t end with being so well understood.
Even if she doesn’t care about my powers, I didn’t tell her to stop caring about me. At least, to some extent, that still stands.
Elegantly, she wraps up her class, dismissing the students. Slowly, they walk past me, and I keep my eyes down, unprepared to take in all of that emotion.
When they’re gone, I race through the rows of messy desks to Ms. Ferner.
She keeps her head down, eyes on a book.
Her gaze doesn’t meet mine again.
“Yes, Estridon?”
“How are—” I cut myself off.
Ms. Ferner looks up.
I suppose there is no time for manners.
“There was a prophecy,” I say instead. “I delivered a prophecy—and I don’t know what to do about it.”
Ms. Ferner’s emotions go from slightly concerned to entirely suspicious.
“And what was the prophecy?”
I recite it to her, as well as what I learned in the woods while fighting Lucian.
I tell her that this prophecy traces back to two people—one prince, and one Fire Folk.
As I speak, I question myself; am I only looking for someone to condone my actions?
To agree with how I treated Lucian, and how I will treat Desdemona?
“Wendy,” Ms. Ferner sighs, using my first name—which she doesn’t often do. Even if she hadn’t given me that small indicator, I’d know I won’t like what she’s about to say. “Prophecies are not up to the interpreter. I fear that such a warning is left in the hands of those who it was delivered to.”
Leave it up to Desdemona and Lucian? Two people who have to die but will never kill each other?
I shake my head. “You don’t understand—”
“Your magic has always been unpredictable,” she says—so matter-of-fact. Clinical. As if it means nothing to her.
Because it doesn’t. It’s simply something she observed. Never something she invested in.
Ms. Ferner continues, “We cannot trust that you got the prophecy right, nor can we be certain that you fully understand it. However, I do commend you for the strength you’ve shown. It’s fair to see you stand for something.”
I step back, looking at Ms. Ferner sideways. My magic may be unpredictable—but it’s strong. It always has been.
It’s why it killed Xander.
How can she not understand what the prophecy means? Is it because of what I stole from her?
“My magic may have been unpredictable in the past,” I argue, my heart gutting itself when she doesn’t care. “But I’ve learned discipline. I killed a pernipe!”
Ms. Ferner flinches at my words. “You mustn’t walk around screaming that.”
“Why not? I deserve credit—”
“Credit will not be what you receive,” she reprimands me. “You’ll be ostracized. No one wants a Eunoia who kills. It goes directly against what we are.”
I feel her words like a weight on my chest. It’s not as if I was unaware of this—it’s that it doesn’t make sense.
“But that’s what I don’t understand,” I press. “How are we all the same thing? Yes, Eunoias bring life. Why can’t we end it, as well?”
Ms. Ferner rises, shaking her head as she presses her hands against her wooden desk. “This academy is preparing you for the universe at large—how to survive within it under those in power. If they want you to be a life-bringer, that is what you must be.”
“But—”
“I told you once, there is no space for revolution.”
“I’m not seeking revolution—”
“Wendy,” she hisses. “Do not even speak the word unless you are willing to suffer the consequences.”
?
I take a deep, shaking breath, and all I say is, “Yes ma’am.”
My body is thoroughly battered—as if I’ve lain in the center of the hall, taking foot after foot to my ribs, my stomach, my face. My mind is covered in bruises. My thoughts are bleeding.
It’s long after the academy day and time for the Collianth Ball when I knock at Calista’s door. Donning a shimmering pastel yellow gown, she glances at me once, scanning from head to toe—disapproving of my dark blue academy uniform.
“You didn’t get a dress?” She says it kindly, but there’s small peeks of anger beneath.
I think she will always be angry with me.
No, I didn’t get a dress—there wasn’t any time. Not between the shallow aches that pierce through me with every breath. The longing to be anything other than me.
The grief I promised myself I wouldn’t feel.
“I didn’t have time.” I shrug.
Calista shakes her head, walking to the back of the room and opening her large wardrobe doors.
She sighs as she searches her closet, pulling out a pastel purple dress.
With annoyance, she throws the gown on her bed, and I pick it up obediently.
As she glares at me, she crosses her arms over her chest, waiting impatiently.
I should be putting the gown on. But there’s something more happening.
Something I’ve been waiting to face.
There’s no better time than when I’m already aching, I suppose.
“Are you always going to be mad at me?” I ask meekly.
With the arch of an eyebrow, she says, “I’m not mad.”
“Calista—”
“Just put on the damn dress, and let’s get this over with.”
The dress is beautiful. The kind of thing Ma might have picked for me. Though hers would have been a more muted shade of purple. Still, I don’t deserve it.
Do I?
Either way, beautiful does not feel like a thing my battered body deserves—even if the pain is no more than metaphysical.
“We’re running out of time,” Calista reminds me.
I don’t argue any more—with myself or her.
As I tug my uniform off, I turn to face the door, then I pull the glittering purple dress on in its place.
I’m not ready for this. The last time I donned a gown so gorgeous I was in Azaire’s hands.
The boy’s hands.
Azaire’s hands.
I should have let him love me sooner. I could have loved him longer. Now, I love a corpse. And I will longer than I loved the man he was.
No. I won’t grieve until I’m avenged. I have to stick to my vow, this time.
As I turn back to face Calista, she glances me up and down, approval like smoke billowing out from her. “Are you ready?”
“One second,” I mutter, leaning over to strap a small pouch to my thigh. The perfect hiding spot for Desdemona’s necklace and my quick escape.
Our plan—vengeance—should be the first thing on my mind.
My promise should be the first thing on my mind.
But I thought holding Azaire would mean hurting him, and in turn, hurting myself. I thought that would be the worst fate.
It’s the last thing I should be thinking, but it’s the first thing I think of: that as perverse as this is, I’d prefer his place over mine.
To be the thing gone, rather than the thing grieving.
I shake my head at my thoughts—stupidly—and when Calista glares at me, I say, “Ready.”
I don’t care what happens to me, as long as I fix what happened to him.
?
It’s sickening how beautiful the ballroom is after the ugly events beyond its borders. A man lost his leg. My boy lost his life.
With every step, the room grows invigorating. At first, it’s sweet. My blood beams—like a light in the night—with vesi and other substances. Then, my heart pounds. My mind races.
Is it the weight of my thoughts?
It’s hard to tell.
Calista stays a few feet away, talking to her friend, Fleur, and glancing in my direction. She makes sure I have a clear view of her. That way, I can feel when Desdemona’s necklace is hers and we seal the prophecy shut.
Calista is waiting until the dancing starts, when everyone will be moving and looking for a partner. I wait for that moment too, passing the time by drinking up everyone else—intoxicated by strangers’ blood streams.
I count the seconds. Lucian approaches. It’s surprising; he isn’t angry. He isn’t seeking retribution. His intentions seem nearly pure. He’s dressed in a suit even more ornate than Calista’s gown—royal blue with embroidered beads and a glistening coat adorned in stone.
“Wendy,” he says, meeting my gaze. “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”
Fleur drags Calista across the dance floor. I take a step forward, following them, but Lucian steps in line with me. There’s no getting out of this conversation.
“I didn’t mean to disappoint,” I say.
Lucian clasps his hands behind his back, looking ahead. “No,” he mutters. “I came to apologize. It was never my intention for matters to escalate to such a degree.”
“Which matters? Desdemona? Or Azaire’s death?”
An arrow of guilt impales my heart. It takes away every secondhand shot of alcohol.
“What did you do, Lucian?” I ask—a question, but I mean it as a demand.
He shies away, lowering his gaze and seeking to avoid mine.
I grab his forearm, forcing him to meet my eyes. Forcing myself to feel every splinter in his shattered soul.
“Everytime I mention Azaire, you feel at fault,” I say.
Lucian’s jaw clenches, and I dig the tips of my gloves into his skin.
“Tell me,” I demand.
He shakes his head—wishing to end the conversation but wanting to rid the arrow in his chest more.
“Have you ever sworn to protect someone with your life?” he asks. He isn’t looking for an answer. “Tell me how you’d feel if that person died in your arms.”