Chapter 50
Poppy
I WRAP MY CLOAK TIGHTER around my shoulders, ignoring the snowflakes melting into the thick fabric.
The courtyard is a pale, frozen gray, the cobblestone paths slick and quiet beneath my boots.
Snow drifts lazily from the sky, settling on ledges and the bare branches of the courtyard trees.
Above me, the towers of the castle become lost in heavy low-hanging clouds.
I try to keep my gaze forward, counting my steps, letting the cold sting distract me from the ache in my chest.
It’s been three days since Aric told me he wanted to take a break, and while I’m grateful I’m not crying myself to sleep anymore, the numb pain that’s settled inside me almost feels worse.
And these dismal gray days aren’t helping.
I feel as frozen inside as the icy fractals that creep across the castle’s stained glass windows.
And like the winter, it feels like my pain is here to stay.
My next exam starts in an hour. While most students are huddled up in the castle, flocking around the fires like moths to flames, I find myself wandering toward the Whim, trying to let the sharp cut of the cold air breathe some life into me.
But then I see him.
Aric.
He’s on the other side of the courtyard, coming from the direction of the athletics building. He’s wearing a heavy cloak and has his hair pulled up in its usual topknot. Even from here, I can see the glint of his earrings as they catch the thin gray light.
But he’s not walking alone. He’s with Morgan.
Her red hair is a riot of color against the muted landscape, and her laughter carries to me on a burst of cold air.
Her hand brushes his arm in that casual, confident way that makes my stomach twist into knots.
I can’t stop myself from watching how she leans toward him, how easy it seems, how natural.
They look good together. Right. Maybe in a way we never did—and likely never will again.
For a moment, I can’t move. My breath hitches, and the snowflakes landing on my glasses and eyelashes blur the scene into a frozen haze. My heart thunders so hard it feels like the whole courtyard must hear.
I hurriedly remove my glasses and use a mitten to wipe the slushy snow from the glass. When I put them back on, Aric glances my way, and for one instant, our eyes meet.
My stomach flips as I realize he sees me, and for the briefest instant, something painful flickers across his face—an almost imperceptible shadow of regret, of guilt, of something I want desperately to understand. To cling to.
He’s the one who doesn’t want me. He’s the one who told me he needed a break, that he can’t handle a relationship right now.
So why is he looking at me like that? My chest tightens, a strange mix of hope and heartbreak coiling inside me, but before I can grasp it, he wipes the expression away.
The softness in his hazel eyes vanishes, replaced with an effortless mask.
He doesn’t stop walking. He looks away first, back to Morgan, and the icy weight of rejection settles deeper into my bones.
I take a careful step forward, then another, forcing myself to move, forcing myself to pretend I’m fine. But every step away from Aric brings more moisture to my eyes.
In an effort to keep my tears from falling, I try to focus on what I can feel: my boots crunching against fresh-fallen snow, the cold air burning my lungs, the touch of frozen flakes brushing my cheeks as they dance down from the thick gray clouds above.
Aric’s and Morgan’s voices echo softly against the stone walls of the castle and outbuildings as they leave the courtyard, warm and carefree in a way that makes me feel even emptier inside.
I wrap my arms around myself beneath my cloak and shiver—both from the cold and the heartbreak that has settled like ice inside my chest.
“THANK YOU FOR A WONDERFUL semester!” Professor Silvermoon says, her voice ringing out through the quiet classroom mere moments before the chime of the castle’s big clock rumbles through the corridors, signaling the end of this class period.
Immediately, the second-years lurch to their feet, already chattering pleasantly while they pack up their bookbags and shuffle from the classroom, leaving their tabletops cluttered with teacups, saucers, and speckles of spilled tea.
It’s the end of their final exam—tasseography, reading tea leaves—and the tables are a mess of used cups, dark leaves clinging to the porcelain in shapes the students were tasked with interpreting.
I stand from my spot at the desk at the back of the classroom, where I was working on reviewing the final papers the students turned in last class period.
Despite having an entire period to work on them, I only got through a few essays; no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t keep focused on the words in front of me.
My mind kept wandering back to the snowy courtyard, to seeing Aric with Morgan, to remembering the words he said to me in the library.
I’m saying maybe we need to take a break. Just until finals are over.
Did Aric mean that? Does he really want to try again after finals? Or was that just an attempt to soften the crushing blow of him breaking up with me?
Tears pool in my eyes again, but I remove my glasses and scrub them quickly away, refusing to stain any of the student papers with my tears.
The frames feel cold against my face when I slide them back on—a reminder of how Aric fixed them for me, how he took it upon himself to do something so kind even without me asking.
Everything reminds me of him. And everything hurts.
I move mechanically toward the nearest table, beginning the familiar task of collecting abandoned teacups.
The porcelain is still warm against my palms, and the dregs of tea leaves have left dark stains at the bottom of each cup—little prophetic messages that the students worked hard to interpret.
I wonder if any of them saw heartbreak in their cups, if any of them read loss and loneliness in the patterns.
I certainly would have if I’d read my own leaves this morning.
“Here, let me help with that.”
I startle at Professor Silvermoon’s voice, glancing up to find her already gathering cups from another table.
“You don’t have to,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than intended. “I can handle it. You must have so much work to do, it being the end of the semester.”
“I do,” she says gently. “But I want to help.”
I give her a small nod.
We work in silence for a few minutes, stacking cups onto saucers, then wiping up spilled tea with damp cloths. The classroom smells of chamomile and bergamot. Normally, I love this smell—it reminds me of Mama’s café, of home, of comfort. But today it just makes my stomach turn.
I carry a stack of cups to the wash basin at the back of the classroom, careful not to let them clink too loudly.
“Poppy?” Professor Silvermoon’s voice is gentle. I turn to find her watching me, her dark blue eyes soft with concern. “Are you all right?”
I set the teacups down carefully, arranging them in the basin with more attention than necessary, if only to give my hands something to do. “I’m fine. Just tired. Finals week, you know.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, like oversteeped tea left too long to cool.
In my periphery, she studies me for a moment, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that she can see right through my carefully constructed facade.
She’s a master diviner, after all. Reading people must come naturally to her.
And despite how hard I try, I’ve never been particularly good at hiding my feelings.
“Mm,” she says, sounding unconvinced. She joins me at the basin, then sets down her own armful of dishes and wipes her hands on a cotton cloth. “Well, if you have a moment, I wanted to go over the final details for the ball. There are still a few things that need attention before Saturday.”
Saturday. Three days away. Three days until I’m supposed to stand in that beautiful ballroom—the one I’ve spent weeks and weeks dreaming about—and watch other couples dance and be happy while my heart is in pieces.
My throat tightens, but I force myself to nod and meet her eyes. “Of course.”
After wiping tea from my hands, I grab my notebook and quill from my bookbag, then follow Professor Silvermoon to her desk, where she’s spread out various parchments: the ballroom layout, the menu, and the schedule for the evening, with times blocked out in different-colored inks.
I sink into the chair across from her desk and flip to a fresh page in my notebook, trying to ignore how my hands won’t quite stop trembling. It’s been like this for days—since speaking with Aric in the library, since what I thought we’d been building together crumbled out from beneath my feet.
“The memory mist is being stored in the castle’s vault until Saturday, when we’ll transfer it to the castle. We’ll need to coordinate with Mrs. Fairhaven about the timing.”
Memory mist. The luminous fairy substance Aric and I traveled to Faunwood to retrieve. The thing that’s supposed to show people their memories and deepest desires when they gaze into it.
I remember the carriage ride, the prairie fish glowing in the darkness, the feeling of Aric’s hand in mine.
I remember the Golden Lantern, the one bed, how safe I felt as he held me through the night.
And even now, I remember Aurora’s words: The people we’re meant for are rarely the easiest ones to love, but they’re the ones who make us braver.
The irony of it all threatens to choke me.
“Poppy?” Professor Silvermoon’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Did you get that?”
I blink and realize I haven’t written anything down. My quill hovers uselessly over blank parchment. “Sorry. Yes. Coordinate with Mrs. Fairhaven. I can do that.”