Chapter 15 Atticus #2
Raven doffs her mask, but when she smiles, it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Hey, Aspen! These are my friends Dorian and Atticus.”
Aspen shakes Dorian’s gloved hand, but I only manage to wave.
I’d remove my mask, but my hands are shaking too much, and I worry I’d drop it.
I’m a mess. My stomach is tied in knots, and there’s a tense feeling climbing up my throat.
I’m going to puke. I know it. My chest tightens, stomach convulsing.
“It’s nice meeting you guys,” Aspen says to Dorian and me, then turns to Raven and extends an elbow. “Come on. I want to introduce you to some people.”
Raven offers us a fleeting look, but I manage to give her a thumbs-up. Donning her mask again, she lets Aspen escort her deeper into the party.
“You look amazing,” I hear Aspen say to her, his voice fading into the music.
“He seems nice,” says Dorian flatly, but I’m not really paying attention.
I spin around, searching for somewhere quiet.
I don’t even bother to tell Dorian where I’m going.
I stumble into the kitchen, but it’s worse in there.
They’re doing some kind of drinking game with magic, levitating shots of vodka and dropping them into people’s mouths.
The voices in my head are drunk and loud.
I wave my hand through the air, trying to bat them away, but I can’t.
I find a stairway and rush up the steps, scaling them two at a time.
I stumble down the upstairs hall, searching.
For what I don’t know. I can’t breathe. This mask is suffocating me.
The voices threaten to drown me in the cacophony.
At the end of the hall, I find an empty room. I throw the door open, whip off the mask, and take a deep, relieved breath. No more voices, no more images.
It’s quieter here, and I feel like myself again.
“Finch?”
I turn to see Dorian peeking into the room, his brow knitted with concern. He’s taken off his mask and lowered his hood.
“You all right?” he asks. “You rushed off.”
“I just needed a minute. I got overwhelmed, that’s all.”
“Anything I can do to help? Do you want to leave?” he asks.
Massaging my throbbing temples, I say, “No, I’m doing better now.
Crowds are always difficult. Parties are almost impossible.
I should have known better. I ought to have thought of this in advance or maybe just prepared myself.
Like I waded into a vast ocean when I ought to have been just dipping my toe. ”
It’s a sloppy metaphor, but I’m still feeling flushed, my thoughts jumbled.
I can still hear the thumping music of the party, but it feels less violent, less invasive now that Dorian is here.
He shuts the door, muffling the noise. Then something catches his eye, and he crosses the room to stand before several easels with half-finished paintings.
“This must be an art studio,” he says. “You always seem to find your way to them.”
“Maybe it’s another one of my gifts,” I joke. “Don’t let me keep you. If you want to go back to the party, I don’t mind.”
“It’s not as fun if you’re not there,” he says, smiling, finding the most casual way to make my insides turn to jelly. “Besides, with Raven being Aspen’s date, I felt awkward being alone.”
He’s still looking at the paintings, and I can’t stop watching him.
We used to go to art galleries together.
Rather, I used to go to art galleries, and Dorian just happened to be working there.
I would bring him food, and he’d take a break from his docent duties to walk around the gallery with me, and we’d look at all of the exhibits.
Most of the time, though, I would be looking at Dorian instead.
Looking at him, just being with him, really, helps calm me down. He’s a stabilizing presence.
My eyes follow the angular slope of his nose, the cut of his jaw, the way his hair drapes just against his eyebrow. He brushes it back, unaware of my gaze, then points to a painting on the wall.
“Hey, look,” he says. “Doesn’t this look like the reading room in the Rosette?”
I crane my neck to look. “Yeah, I think so.” I’m reminded of the night we snuck into the Eastern Archive.
How close he’d been when we hid from Warden Stone.
I think often about that moment and what might have happened if we’d been alone and Warden Stone hadn’t dropped the book, startling Dorian.
I’ve even pictured it in my head, imagining in elaborate detail everything he might have done to me, everything I wanted him to do.
“It’s a Hubert,” he says.
“Is it?” I ask. I was so distracted by him, I didn’t even notice.
I lean in and get a better look. He’s right, the style matches perfectly. Dorian would know, of course—he’s the expert—but this painting is different, outside of his usual subjects. “Why would he have painted the Rosette?”
Dorian doesn’t answer. He’s transfixed by the painting. The stained-glass eye on the Rosette is its focal point, glowing with an internal light that looks as natural as seeing it in person. The magic of the portrait is subtle, but once you see it, you can’t look away.
“Something moved,” Dorian says.
“It’s a Hubert. Of course something moved.”
Dorian frowns as he stares at the painting. “No, it was, like, a shadow or something…there.” He places his gloved finger on the canvas, right on the eaves of the cathedral-like structure.
“It can’t be real, can it?” I ask. My question goes unanswered. Dorian seems hesitant to investigate.
I don’t see anything, though. It must have been a blink-and-you-miss-it detail.
Dorian doesn’t seem to see it again either.
After a long moment, he takes a deep breath and turns his gaze to me, his features softened, and then he glances to the door when he hears a burst of laughter coming from outside.
“How are you feeling?” he asks me.
“Better,” I say truthfully. He looks pleased, but there’s something else in his face. His aura is a somber color. “You?”
He sighs, as if he knows that I know, and bites his lower lip before admitting, “You know, it’s funny. I thought I’d enjoy this.” He gestures to the party behind the closed door. “Instead, I just feel so out of place here.”
“How so?”
“Wearing this mask…I thought I’d finally feel like one of them.
” He runs his hand through his hair again and glances to the door, laughter drifting through the cracks.
“But we’re just pretending, we’re frauds.
Sometimes I don’t even know what we’re doing here.
” He sighs as he gets to what’s really bothering him.
“It’s strange seeing Raven with a date.”
“Yeah, Aspen. I’m not really sure how she feels about him,” I tell him. “I know he’s a third-year. But he does have a silly name. Like a ski resort.”
“So—he’s an apprentice wizard,” he says bitterly. His aura is a worrisome red, so similar to Raven’s.
“You’re a thousand times more of a wizard than he will ever be,” I say.
“It doesn’t matter,” he sighs. “I’m not good enough for her. I never have been.”
I shake my head. “Dorian. That is so far from true.”
Dorian almost laughs, a self-pitying kind of chuckle. “I mean, I can’t even touch her, can’t hold her, not without…” He trails off, flexing his gloved hand. “And now she’s with some guy named Vail.”
“Aspen,” I correct him.
“Yeah, Mr. Telluride.” He snorts.
“Monsieur Beaver Creek,” I say.
“Jackson Asshole.” He laughs.
Then we’re both laughing.
He drags his hand through his hair again, an endearing nervous habit. “I don’t want to be jealous, but I can’t help it.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think she cares about Aspen.” I try not to giggle. “You know she’s always preferred Deer Valley.”
Dorian swallows, nodding as his aura turns pink, indicating embarrassment, perhaps. I’m never certain.
“Maybe you just need practice,” I say, trying to be helpful. “Right now, you don’t know what will happen if you touch someone, but maybe, with some experience, you can learn to control it. Perhaps it’s time to stop letting it control you.”
He runs his hand through his hair again, and it makes me crazy with desire. I want to do that to his hair. And I wish he would just give up on Raven, since I’m right here.
“Why don’t you just try?” I ask, offering my open palm. “When’s the last time someone held your hand, not just your glove?”
A twitch shivers through Dorian’s lips, and he tries to hide it with a smile. “You really want to?” he asks.
Yes, yes, yes, I think. “Why not?” I say.
“Because it’s…Are you sure?” he asks.
“Sure as sin.”
“If we touch, I’m just worried I won’t be able to stop what’s happening. I can’t seem to end the visions once they start…”
“So don’t try to stop it. Are you afraid of what you might see in me?” I prompt.
He swallows again. “You aren’t worried? You don’t care if I know everything?”
“I have nothing to hide. Besides, if it doesn’t work, well then…
there are worse things that can happen.” I don’t want to hide my feelings for him anymore.
I am tired of hiding. I squeeze my hand on his, feeling the warmth of the leather.
His fingers squeeze mine, a gentle assurance.
Heat rushes to my face. Slowly, I tug on his glove, pinching the tip of it with my fingers.
He lets me take it off, and it falls to the floor.
All it takes is a touch. Just one.
His bare hand slides up my arm, slowly at first, and then he’s touching my face, touching my cheek with the tips of his fingers, so light it sends goose bumps down my throat. His fingers are warm and soft.
“Okay?” I whisper.
He nods.
So I grab his hand, holding it tight. I guide him, pressing his palm solidly against my cheek, letting his fingers dig into the back of my head. His touch sends ripples through my body. I can’t breathe.
He frowns, and I feel it, a tension, a buzzing in the air not unlike the coming of a storm. The air around us is electric. He doesn’t say it; he doesn’t have to.