Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
MARCELLA
Marcella goes through a torrent of highs and lows the next few days. Yet bit by tiny bit, with the help of Gray and through her own determination, color slowly bleeds into the world around her.
She has just finished the final twist in her freshly washed braid, her eyes skillfully latched onto the book she has propped open on her desk, when a knock sounds at the door.
She strides across the room and pulls it back, revealing Gray mid-knock.
His eyes temporarily widen before he smooths his expression over.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“You answered the door.”
“I did.”
She can tell he tries to stifle it, but a small curve twitches at the corner of his mouth anyways. “Are you going somewhere?” He motions to the boots now on her feet, and Marcella glances down, blinking as if she had already forgotten she put them on.
“Uhm, no. I, uh…I just wanted to get dressed today.” Marcella clears her throat and pulls the door back. “Do you want to come in?”
“I do, but…” He trails off, rubbing at the back of his neck.
Marcella frowns. “But what?”
He shifts on his feet. “Would you be willing to leave your bedchamber today?”
Would she?
“To go where?”
“Somewhere only very few know about.” He smiles boyishly. “Kiran may or may not have told me about it.”
Marcella’s heart beats heavily for three breaths, her chest growing tight. She shakes out her now moist hands at her side, debating.
“If you’re not ready yet, it’s okay, Marcella. Move at whatever pace you’re comfortable with.”
Yet she only hears his other words as they echo through her. Your sun will shine again, Marcella. Just hold on to let it happen.
“No, I…I want to come.”
He grins. “Then let’s go.”
Of all the many ways Marcella thought today might go, she certainly never thought she would be sitting on a blanket at the very top of one of Bathara’s many rolling hills, her skin hidden from the setting sun by the canopy of a beautiful weeping tree—whose white bark makes the tree appear in a constant state of winter—with a spread of homecooked Anatolian food around her.
From their position, the horizon is swallowed by the network of tiered waterfalls filling the Hills of Thanicka, making it feel as if they are in their own pocket of reality. Here, the academy and its occupants, all the grief and pain—it feels a world away.
Marcella takes a bite from her fluffy round bread. “Where did you get the recipes for all this food?”
“I asked Nuri.”
A tiny chuckle—though still far different than her usual one—slips free of Marcella’s lips. “And you cooked it yourself?”
“All of it,” Gray says, taking a bite of his cured meat.
“Quite the chef,” she attempts to joke. Yet in the silence, the heaviness lingers like a ghost waiting to haunt her once more. “Gray?”
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why are you doing all of this for me?”
He does not answer right away, instead taking a moment of consideration as he draws his knees into his chest and watches the dimming sky.
“Because it’s what you need, and I want to be there for you.
” He pauses, brows lowering as he toys with a slice of bread.
“I failed Lyra when she needed me, and I…” He trails off, biting down on his lip.
Gray turns to look at her, soft eyes filled with raw determination. “I will not fail you too, Marcella.”
She silently holds his stare, not sure of what to say or do.
No one has ever cared about her in this way before.
Has acted like a lifeline refusing to let her drown.
And as Gray watches her, Marcella is surprised to find herself slowly feeling tethered to this world again.
She isn’t quite sure how to explain it, but there for a while, she felt like she was floating away—like she was fading.
Whether from this world or her existence entirely, she didn’t know.
But there is something about the way Gray looks at her in this moment that makes her feel anchored.
Makes her feel like she isn’t a ghost. She doesn’t feel better; she simply feels seen.
She threads her fingers through his and squeezes, knowing she doesn’t need to say the words thank you for him to understand them.
He squeezes back, and emotion bloats in her chest.
“Maybe the next time we come to this hill, it’ll be to watch the sunrise.” He glances at her with a knowing look, and Marcella smiles.
“When Lyra returns,” she says.
Gray’s smile is poignant, yet optimistic. They both know the tedious bubble they currently reside in, unaware if Lyra is even alive, yet neither refusing to believe she isn’t.
“Deal,” he says.
They continue watching the bleeding sky, and as they do, the hollow spaces Marcella has carried within her fill with the chirps of birds and the bright notes of songs played on a double-flute.
Be happy, Marcella. Promise me.
I promise.
Perhaps after so many blurry days of mourning the new circumstances surrounding her, it’s time she begins to try fulfilling her promise in the ways she can. She knows it’s what Griff would want her to do. What would make Lyra smile, wherever she is.
So, she resolves to try.