Chapter 45
Poppy
THE CLASSROOM SMELLS LIKE FLOUR, sugar, and honey. We’re making honey cakes today, and I watch from across the classroom as Aric carefully retrieves our batch of three from the oven. He’s wearing an apron and oven mitts, and he looks so adorable that it makes my lips pull up on one side.
“What are you smiling at, Brains?” he asks when he gets back to our workstation, three steaming honey cakes sitting on the platter that he lowers onto the table.
“Oh, nothing.”
“Nothing?” Aric arches a brow at me and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes—which are still rimmed in dark circles from him staying up too late and not prioritizing rest. “I think you’re fibbing,” he continues as he slides closer to me, one of his hands finding mine atop the table.
He gives my fingers a brief squeeze, then steps back.
“So, I guess we should get our frosting mixed up while those cool, right?”
I nod once—and notice again that my glasses don’t slide down. “Right.”
We mix up a batch of vanilla frosting, and I laugh when Aric whisks a bit too hard and sends flecks of vanilla all over me.
“Oops, sorry.” He puts the bowl and whisk down and grabs a cloth from the table. Then he makes my heart skip when he leans in and starts carefully wiping the splattered frosting from my cheeks, ignoring the way some of the other students glance our way and whisper.
With one hand on my cheek and the other holding the cloth, Aric clears his throat and says, “Hey, I meant to tell you . . .”
I flick my eyes up to meet his, but he’s not looking at me, focused instead on the cloth and spattered frosting.
“I think I’m good on tutoring now.”
I blink. Then blink again.
What?
Aric finishes wiping my cheek, then steps back. He smiles at me again, but still, it doesn’t look real. Rather, it looks like he’s trying to convince me that everything’s okay, but he’s not a very good actor.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, I’ve been reviewing a lot on my own, and it’s starting to click. You’ve helped me so much—I don’t want to keep you chained to study sessions with me when you’ve got the ball to plan and your own finals coming up.”
His tone is cheerful, but it’s too bright, and it doesn’t match the expression on his face—the dark bags under his eyes, the forced smile, the obvious exhaustion.
“Aric,” I say softly, and now I’m the one who reaches out a hand. I twine my fingers with his and give them a light squeeze. “You know I’m happy to help. I enjoy our study sessions. They’re not a bother.”
The laugh he huffs out is noticeably lacking in humor, and it makes me bristle. “I figured you’d say that.” He squeezes my fingers back, then pulls away, whispering, “You’re too good to me, Brains.”
I disagree. Fully. But Professor Sage is coming around, checking on honey cakes and frosting bowls, and Aric turns his attention back toward his whisk, leaving me standing next to him feeling alone, even though he’s close enough that I could reach out and touch him.
“Oh, these look lovely,” Professor Sage says as she steps up to our table.
“Remember to let them cool first before adding the frosting.” She reaches out to touch one of the honey cakes, and as soon as her fingertip pokes the cake, it lets out a puff of sweet-smelling steam, then collapses in on itself, completely ruined.
“Oh my. Perhaps that leavening spell needs a bit of work, hmm?” She casts us each a look, and I feel my cheeks going red.
Aric did the leavening spell today, but I was so distracted admiring him in his apron that I didn’t even consider whether he’d said it right. Which, I guess, he didn’t.
His shoulders slump a bit, and he pauses with the whisk. “Yeah, of course,” he says quickly, his tone still forcefully bright. “I’ll work on that, Professor.”
“Best do,” she says. “Remember”—she lifts her voice now to address the class—“for our finals, you’ll each have to demonstrate proficiency with the spells we’ve learned this semester, and you’ll need to be able to prepare a full meal on your own, which I’ve invited the headmistress and a few other professors to judge.
” She turns back to our table and taps Aric on the shoulder.
“If you need a refresher on anything we’ve covered this year, please don’t hesitate to come to my office hours, Mr. Vandermere. They’re available for a reason.”
“Thank you, Professor. I’ll do that.”
My lips press into a firm line.
I can help him with that. But now he . . . doesn’t want me to? Doesn’t want to study together even though he clearly still needs the help?
Once our professor walks away to critique another batch of honey cakes, Aric sighs and whispers, low enough for only my ears, “Sorry, Poppy. Guess I fucked it up.”
“It’s okay,” I say, but for some reason, my throat is starting to feel tight, and Aric still isn’t looking at me, like he doesn’t want to meet my eyes. In an effort to try to get something from him, I say, “I went dress shopping last weekend. For the ball.”
“How’d it go?” He keeps whisking, and my stomach is growing tight now.
“Good. I . . . I got a dress. It’s purple. You said you wanted to know what color it was.”
“That’s great.” He finally puts the mixing bowl down, and his hazel eyes find mine. They’re tired, distracted, like he’s maybe not even thinking about being here in class with me right now. His lips pull up on one side, and he says, “I can’t wait to see you in it.”
And though I smile, inside, I feel like I might be sick.
Because I’m not so sure I believe him. I’m not so sure of anything anymore.
AFTER CLASS, I EXPECT TO walk back to the dormitory towers with Aric, but he says he has another runeball practice, so we part ways in the hallway.
I turn to watch his large frame disappear amidst the wave of students flowing through the corridor, and when he vanishes around a corner, mist starts to fill my eyes.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
As fast as my feet will carry me—without running—I hurry through the castle, out the doors into the cold winter air, and toward my favorite place on campus: the Whim.
It’s so chilly out today, most students are scurrying toward the castle, not away from it.
But I want to be somewhere quiet, somewhere I can sit and think and try to figure out what in the goddess is going on with me and Aric.
Assuming there still is a me and Aric.
The thought brings more moisture to my eyes, and I quickly scrub it away with the back of my hand.
As soon as I arrive at the entrance to the Whim, I realize this was a terrible idea.
Because the last time I was here was on Samhain, with Aric.
Now my body is remembering the way he held my waist and laid me down on a bed of crinkly leaves, the way he wrapped his hands around my thighs and used his mouth to bring me to a pleasure I’ve only ever dreamed about.
Why can’t we just go back to that? Why did everything have to change after that night?
I’m still standing at the hedge maze’s entrance when there’s a crunching of frozen grass behind me. When I turn, I find Beckett there, looking up at me from his wheelchair, face etched with concern.
“Poppy, what’s wrong?” he asks, and only then do I realize that tears are dripping down my cheeks, leaving tracks of moisture that sting in the cold wind. “Are you crying?”
I tug my cloak tighter around myself and think about lying, trying to spin this in a positive way, but one look at Beckett tells me he’ll never believe a single lie that comes out of my mouth.
“It’s . . . It’s Aric,” I finally bring myself to say. “He doesn’t want to work with me anymore. It feels l-like everything’s changing.”
Beckett’s face softens, his shoulders rising and falling on a breath. “Come on,” he says, already turning his chair back toward the castle. “We’re getting you something to eat, and then we’re gonna talk.”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to—”
But Beckett starts rolling back toward the castle, ignoring my arguments. A cold blast of wind hits me, tossing my hair all around my moist cheeks, and I cast one more glance at the entrance to the Whim. Then I turn and follow Beckett back to the castle.
WE END UP IN THE astronomy tower—Beckett is an adept air warlock, and he’s easily able to hover his chair up and down the winding staircases. We pick a spot by one of the expansive glass walls, and Beckett shoves a warm chocolate croissant into my hands.
“It’s dinnertime,” I tell him.
“Sometimes we need to eat dessert first,” he says, then takes a bite of his croissant. He lets out a sigh and kisses his fingertips. “Perfection. Now go on, eat. And tell me what Vandermere has done to mess this up so bad.”
While we eat, I tell Beckett everything: about Aric asking me to the ball, then our trip to Faunwood, all the way up to what he said in class today.
He already knows about Aric missing that tutoring session, but this is the first time I’m telling him the rest of it.
I keep what happened at the Golden Lantern and on Samhain to myself, but I get the feeling Beckett assumes as much, because he gets a little smirk but says nothing.
“And now he doesn’t want me to tutor him anymore,” I finish. “He didn’t even sound sad about it. More like . . . he was relieved. Like letting go of me was easy.” I’ve got one sliver of croissant left, and I pop it into my mouth, then lift my teary eyes to Beckett.
He tips his head at me, then casts his gaze out the glass wall beside us, where the sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of dark purple and dusky pink. Stars are slowly starting to twinkle to life in the sky, appearing earlier and earlier as our days get shorter.
“First,” he says, moving his gaze back to me, “guys are idiots. Me included.”
This gets me to smile, which I think was his intention.
“And because we’re idiots, you can’t always take what we say seriously.
Or read into it. Sometimes there’s nothing to read into, and trying to figure it out will drive you crazy.
But also, it seems like Aric’s under a lot of pressure right now, and though I don’t know him, he seems the type to try to be strong even when everything’s falling apart. ”
I dab the croissant crumbs from my lips and give Beckett a small nod.
“So, maybe he needs space to figure some things out for himself. But that doesn’t mean anything’s wrong between you. That’s another thing guys are bad at: communicating clearly.”
“You seem to do a good job,” I say, giving him another small smile.
“Yeah, well, I’ve got three sisters, so I learned early on.
” He reaches out to put his hand on top of mine where it’s lying on the armrest of the purple couch I’m curled up on.
“If you ask me, I think he’s just stressed out and not handling it well.
But if you do end up needing a date to the ball, I’d love to escort you. ”
More tears fill my eyes.
“Or . . . not?” Beckett looks unsettled, like he’s not sure if these are good tears or bad tears.
With a laugh, I lean forward and pull him into a hug, and after a moment of surprise, he wraps his arms around me.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “That means a lot.”
His hold on me tightens, and he whispers, “It would be an honor, Poppy. I mean that. And I hope you believe it too.”