29. VERENA GRAVENHURST
TWENTY-NINE
VERENA GRAVENHURST
I have spent most of my life believing that truth is a beacon of light in the darkness. That if someone is brave enough to chase it, the lies that bury it will recede out of respect. Hollowcrest cured me of that illusion.
My sweet Lilliana’s death has been reduced to physics and probability.
A freak accident that transpired from a mix of weather, recklessness, and inattention.
I have tried, in good faith, to accept the story the Hollowcrest Police Department handed me.
I stayed up late into the night rereading the report until my eyes blurred.
She inherited my hunger for understanding, my refusal to leave a single question unanswered in search of the truth. I taught her how to read between the lines in order to survive the cruelties of Hollowcrest, of the world, but I failed to teach her when or how to stop.
Maybe in the end, the accident was my fault.
Maybe the weight of the truth she carried that night, while leaving the manor, left her distracted.
As a grieving father, I would accept and carry that as the truth.
It was my job to protect her, after all.
But as a logical man, I refuse to see anything but the truth.
I know my daughter. She was not careless and so easily distraught.
She never let the weight of her emotions cloud her judgment.
The word accident sits on the report like an insult, because deep down, I know this was no accident at all.
There are never accidents in Hollowcrest, and I will not rest until I discover who took her from me.
The pads of my fingers skim over the black ink of my grandfather’s penmanship, the weight of his words causing an ache to settle in my chest. I found myself curled up in the leather sectional of the library soon after arriving back at the manor, and time seemed to slip away from me.
His entries have been nothing but normal up until now.
I told myself I’d find all the answers within the pages of his journal, but with each flip of the page, I’m only troubled with more.
He thinks the accident wasn’t an accident at all, and the thought of that being true opens up a wound in my chest I have tried to heal for so long.
I wipe away a tear that found its way down my cheek, swallow hard against the knot that’s formed at the back of my throat, and flip to the next entry.
A sudden chill wafts through the library, and I tuck my feet onto the couch, pulling a soft knitted blanket over my limbs.
“Please don’t tell me you’re upset over some book you’ve pulled from the romance section,” a teasing voice says from the doorway, and to my surprise, I don’t even flinch at the sudden noise.
I don’t know how long he’s been there, and honestly, I don’t care all that much.
A strange numbness has settled within me.
The moon seeps through the grand window to my left, setting the library in a soft blue glow.
A cheeky grin tugs at the corner of Loxen’s mouth as he saunters towards me, then suddenly drops when my eyes meet his.
He must see the melancholy bleeding through my features, because his expression softens.
He doesn’t say a word as he takes a seat next to me, and the cushion dips under his weight.
He’s so close I can practically feel him against my skin, yet somehow he’s entirely too far.
His presence has become a balm to my aching heart and spiralling mind because once my mouth opens, it doesn’t know how to stop.
“Last night, after you left my grandfather’s office, I found his journal,” I admit to him, even though I promised myself I wouldn’t tell a single soul about it after everything that happened today.
Hollowcrest is full of secrets, it seems, and it was only right I have one of my own.
But something about Loxen makes me want to crack myself open—shatter myself into a million little pieces so that maybe he could put me back together in the right way, undamaged, and whole.
I peer up at him from beneath my lashes, and he sinks further into the couch, his long legs sprawled lazily in front of him.
Loxen stares at me with a kind of reverence, like I’m a wound he wants to heal.
Maybe even like I’m not someone he despises anymore, but someone he understands.
“I’ve been sitting here reading his entries for hours.
I’m not even halfway through, yet I’m left with more questions than answers.
Questions about my mother, and the accident that took her away from me forever.
About the academy and the—” I cut myself off, shaking my head, not wanting to say anything that would incriminate me with the society.
“I have questions about who my grandfather truly was…there’s so much I need to know so that my damaged heart can heal from the trauma my family has endured. ”
Loxen nods, like he understands. Like maybe he feels this way, too. “We’re all a little damaged, Verena. That’s what makes you human,” he says after a long moment.
“And how are you supposed to know all the answers anyway, when you’ve only made it through half of the story?”
His eyes drop to the journal, though the meaning behind his words reach way beyond it.
“What if the ending isn’t what you expect?
It rarely is, after all. All stories, no matter the writer, hold secrets.
It’s inevitable. Every story is half-truth, half-lie.
And maybe you won’t uncover all the secrets at the end.
Hell, maybe you won’t even like the ones you do find.
And that’s okay, because the only truth worth holding onto is your own.
You can uncover all the facts, but the only story that truly matters is the one rooted right here,” he says, pointing to the flesh above his heart.
I nod, and we hold each other’s stare, understanding settling in the air between us.
I try to think of Loxen’s story, and all the secrets a man like him must keep.
It’s then I realize I don’t know much about him at all.
My eyes narrow on Loxen as I slouch back into the armrest, facing him, and make myself comfortable.
“And what about you?” I ask, crossing my arms.
He quirks a brow. “What about me?”
“What’s your truth, Lox?”
He smiles, a real smile, all teeth, and my heart sets fire. “That’s a story for another time, little crow.”
“Why do you always call me that?”
“Call you what?”
“Little crow.” Something I’ve wondered from the very first time the name left his lips.
He smirks. “Because of the way you’re always squawking at me.”
“You’re impossible.” My eyes narrow into slits, and I scowl.
He laughs, and as infuriating as this man is, the sound is a melody I long to hear over and over again. “Well, little crow, if you must know, it’s because crows are highly intelligent creatures. Their beauty is understated by most, and they can be ruthless when crossed by those they’ve trusted.”
Loxen has me at a loss for words, and he seems to rather enjoy it when I blush. I steer the conversation back to him, wanting him to give me even an inkling of information.
“Tell me about yourself.”
“It’s not a story worth learning, trust me,” he says, swallowing as he breaks his gaze away from me, seemingly lost in thought. I find myself wanting to know all of his stories, truths and lies alike.
“And how are you supposed to know that, when you’ve only made it halfway through?” I raise my brows, throwing his words back in his face. “Maybe your ending is amazing, even if your beginning kind of sucked,” I tell him, scrunching my nose.
When his gaze returns to me, there’s something haunted behind it. “Verena, I—” he starts, then swallows, eyes roaming my face as if looking for answers. I want to pry for whatever is troubling him, but I don’t. He shakes his head and nods towards the journal. “What other secrets are in that thing?”
I smile and open the journal to the last page I read. “Let’s find out.”
The soft chirping of birds, the smell of old books and a warmth against my skin coaxes me from my slumber.
My tired eyes squint open against the rays of sun pouring through the window, and a hard object digs into the crook of my elbow.
Awareness trickles in slowly, then all at once, and I sit up straight, rubbing a hand over my face, instantly searching for a pair of cobalt eyes.
I shouldn’t be disappointed that Loxen is no longer sound asleep next to me, but I am.
Regardless of his disappearing act, I feel like I’ve had the best sleep in a long time, possibly the best sleep of my life, though my neck is a little kinked from the position I was lying in.
Loxen and I stayed up late into the night reading my grandfather’s journal. Somewhere in between entries, he had fallen asleep next to me. Sleep found me soon after, it seems.
A waft of something sweet drifts through the library, and my stomach grumbles. I skipped dinner in favour of secrets last night, and my stomach seems to be unhappy about it. Grabbing the journal, I make my way out of the library, towards the heavenly smell that beckons me.