Chapter 47
Maeve
A WEEK LATER, I’M STILL sick. It was reckless of me to stand in the storm, but at the moment, it felt like the only thing keeping me from losing it entirely. Now, as I weave through the crowded corridors, sniffling and feeling like my head is full of cotton, I question my own sanity.
This is what he does to me.
In Severin’s class earlier this week, I was sniffling and sneezing all over the place.
No one wanted to sit next to me, which was fine.
But Severin kept looking at me, dark eyes narrowed, his concern tugging on the thread every time I sneezed.
I could feel his anger with me lingering just under the surface, his frustration at me having been so foolish as to stand in the pouring rain on a winter night.
Alina, Lyra, and Poppy were pretty upset too.
Poppy’s been nursing me back to health all week, bringing me more blankets and endless cups of soup and tea.
Lyra’s been mostly keeping her distance, too afraid to get sick.
And Alina lectures me every chance she gets about needing to take better care of myself.
I know they all care in their own way. Even Lyra.
Isis curls against my skin beneath the chunky scarf I’m wearing. She usually isn’t very active during the winter—cold-blooded and all—but I think she knows I could use her company. Since Severin started pulling away, everything has felt like it’s slipping slowly out of my fingers.
And I hope that doesn’t extend to the fellowship.
I’ve gotten stronger—I know I have. My energy sphere holds longer, and it feels like part of me now rather than an extension of my magic.
But I also know that much of my progress happened after Severin stepped into my life, after he started training me up on the spire, with his hands at my waist and his voice in my ear.
After the connection between us formed and changed everything.
Even now, as I walk toward Professor Azula’s office for our regular fellowship check-in, I feel the thread just beneath my ribs, trying to tug me toward Severin. But like I’ve been doing all week, I ignore it, pushing it down.
Despite that, though, the pressure of it hasn’t gone away.
I reach Professor Azula’s office door and knock once.
“Come in,” she calls.
I step into the office. The space is warm—warmer than the other rooms in the castle—and flickers with both firelight and candlelight. Her desk is orderly, every piece of parchment aligned corner to corner, her quill resting neatly next to her capped inkwell.
Professor Azula sits behind her desk, red hair pulled back in a high bun, two tendrils framing her angular face.
“Miss Vandermere,” she says by way of greeting. “Take a seat.”
I do. Sinking into the chair, I wince a little. My body aches were terrible earlier this week, and my muscles are still sore from it.
Professor Azula raises one sharp red eyebrow. “You look unwell.”
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to smile. But she doesn’t appear convinced. So I add, “It’s just a cold.”
She seems to shift back subtly, like she’s suddenly uncomfortable to be breathing the same air as me.
Is fear of colds a fire witch thing? She and Lyra both act like I’ve got a deadly contagion and not a little bug.
“I will be brief, then,” she says. Folding her hands on the desk, she regards me with a neutral expression. “You have greatly improved this term. Your strength, your stamina, your ability to shape your element without allowing it to control you. The progress has not gone unnoticed.”
A little flicker of warmth dances in my chest, and my lips pull up in the corners. “I’m glad.”
“As you should be. You’ve worked very hard, Miss Vandermere.” She pauses, her crimson eyes narrowing as she regards me. “However, fellowship selection is never guaranteed. Even strong candidates can be overlooked if the board senses instability or magical inconsistency.”
My pulse flutters, and Isis shifts a bit in response, as if trying to remind me that she’s there, supporting me. “Inconsistency?” I ask, voice quiet.
“There was a period,” Professor Azula continues, “when your magic was fluctuating more than I was comfortable with. Enough that it prompted concerns and discussion amongst the faculty.”
I curl my fingers into the fabric of my academy skirt. “I didn’t realize it was that serious.”
“Indeed. I’ll admit, I considered pulling my recommendation of you to the board. It’s why Headmistress Moonhart assigned Professor D’Arques as an additional mentor for you this term.”
Suddenly, I’m flashing back to the conversation I had with Severin before he started teaching me in swordsmanship.
Professor Azula believes you are close to being ready, but your next demonstration is critical. With my experience in control, the headmistress believes I may be of some help to you.
Professor Azula was going to pull my recommendation? And . . . Severin knew about it?
My cheeks heat up, storm magic pulsing beneath my skin.
“Do not allow yourself to get upset,” Isis hisses against my throat.
How can I not?
Professor Azula arches a brow, her gaze darting down to my scarf. I clear my throat to disguise Isis’s hiss.
But my heart is still beating harder than it was a moment ago.
Professor Azula looks back at me. “Your recent work has quieted many of those concerns, and I’m now comfortable in my recommendation of you. But the final decision is made by the fellowship board. That is why your application essay and your performance over the next few weeks are critical.”
Maybe it’s the cold, but my head is spinning. Azula was going to pull my recommendation. Severin knew about it.
He knew, and he didn’t tell me.
“Maeve,” Professor Azula says, drawing my drifting focus back to her. “You have the power, discipline, and vision to succeed at the Arcanum Collective. But you must trust yourself as much as I trust you. As much as Headmistress Moonhart trusts you.”
My throat grows tight, and it makes me start to cough.
Immediately, Professor Azula sits back. Even her iguana scurries off his perch next to her desk and goes to hide under the couch in the corner of her office.
“I-I will,” I finally manage to say.
“Good. Now, please, go have a cup of tea, and make sure to get plenty of rest. We need you well for your demonstration before the board.”
I nod once, then push to my feet, feeling a bit woozy, though I can’t tell if it’s from my cold or from the realization that Severin has been withholding this information from me this whole time.
“I’ll be ready, Professor.”
Professor Azula gives me a small smile. “I expect nothing less of you.”
Back out in the corridor, I finally let the anger and hurt wash over me. It hits all at once, like the immediate shock to your system when you dive into a lake of icy water.
He knew. And he didn’t tell me.
“Do not jump to conclusions,” Isis says, wiggling her head up from under my thick scarf. “He has never tried to hurt you. Wait to hear his explanation before you get angry.”
“Too late,” I grumble.
I’m already angry. I’m more than angry.
And if I weren’t sick and feeling like muck right now, I’d probably be fighting to keep my storm in control.
Around me, other students talk and laugh, discussing our upcoming finals and the Yule holiday. But their voices feel distant, muffled by the roaring in my ears, like I’m deep underwater.
Since that day in his office, I’ve tried to convince myself that the distance he’s putting between us has been to protect me. That it’s his way of showing love.
But now it feels like something else. Like maybe he doesn’t trust me in the way I thought he did.
Before I know what I’m doing, my feet are moving, boots striking out a crisp rhythm on the stone as I walk down the corridor to Severin’s closed office door.
Even without knocking, I know he’s on the other side.
I can feel him there, like I always can.
Like an itch I can never scratch, a thirst that can never be quenched.
I knock once, the rap of my knuckles sharp against the wood.
There’s a beat of silence. I know he knows that it’s me. And I’m not going away. I’ll stand out here all day if I have to.
Finally, his voice calls out, “Enter.”
My pulse jumps. I push the door open and step into his office.
Severin is standing behind his desk, the sleeves of his black button-up folded back to his elbows.
The vest he wears is snug, accentuating the broadness of his shoulders and chest, reminding me of the times I’ve trailed my fingers over his muscles, have felt them straining as he carried me to heights the likes of which I’ve never felt before.
And worry I may never feel again.
Without saying a word, I push the door closed, the click of the latch loud in the quiet office.
He meets my gaze steadily, his eyes now gone completely dark, no hint of my blood left in the color of his irises.
“Miss Vandermere,” he says.
My throat burns. “We need to talk.”