Chapter 6 Norah
Six
Norah
I stifle a yawn as I walk side by side with Professor Vale—Rowan—towards Maeve’s cottage, my fingers wrapped around the small leather pouch in my pocket.
I’ve been clinging to this charm for the past two days.
Ever since Rowan kissed the absolute daylights out of me in the forest and tilted my world on its axis.
I’ve barely slept, unable to stop replaying that kiss in my mind. Unable to stop thinking about him, my emotions veering all over the map, swinging from hope one moment to utter devastation the next.
This bond has forced me to confront a truth: my feelings for my professor are far more than a silly little crush.
I think…I might be in love with him. I’ve never been in love with anyone before, so I guess I don’t really know.
But thoughts of him consume me. I want to know every single thing about him.
And these feelings aren’t new. They’ve been there since the fall.
The bond has only brought them to the forefront.
But he doesn’t want the bond, I remind myself as we crunch through the misty forest in silence. He regrets kissing you. He only wants you because of the magic.
I don’t know if our kiss the other night was real. And I hate that. It was real for me. I would’ve wanted it even without the bond. Of course I would’ve, even if it’s…well, slightly taboo, I guess, given our big age gap and the fact that he’s my professor.
We arrive at Maeve’s cottage, and Rowan knocks on the door. He’s barely looked at me this morning, and that trend continues now. The cottage door swings open with a creak, Maeve’s sharp face peering out from the dim interior. She nods when her gaze lands on us.
“Come in,” she says simply, stepping aside. Rowan follows, stepping in behind me. I’m so aware of him, so painfully aware. Even through our clothes, I’m aware of the heat of his body behind me, the deep, calming breath he takes. It’s agony.
Maeve shuts the door, then turns to face us, hands on her hips. “I managed to get ahold of Cormac.”
Rowan exhales, something like hope flickering in his eyes. “And?”
“He does indeed know a bond-severing ritual. As long as the bond hasn’t been consummated…” Maeve’s gaze flicks between us. “It should work and everything will go back to normal.”
“No, it hasn’t been consummated,” says Rowan, and I blush, looking down at the floor.
“Good. He’ll be here in three days and can perform the ritual then.”
Three days.
The words land like a stone in my stomach. Three days until this—whatever this is—ends. Until we go back to being professor and student, nothing more.
Rowan’s shoulders relax, just slightly. “Thank you,” he says, and I can hear the relief in his voice. “That’s—thank you.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. I should be relieved too. I should be. This is what we wanted. Isn’t it?
But the way his face lights up, the way his whole body relaxes…it feels like something inside me is cracking in half.
I look away, pressing my lips together. My chest aches, a sharp, hollow pain spreading through me. My fingers dig into the leather pouch in my pocket, clinging to the charm that is supposed to make all of this easier to bear.
Three days. Then it’ll be over.
I don’t know if I can stand it.
The walk back to camp is awful. Rowan’s steps are lighter, his shoulders looser, like he’s shed a hundred pounds. His relief is a palpable thing.
I hate it.
“I’m gonna head to my tent,” I say, tears already thickening my voice as I veer off the path before he can respond. I need to get away before this dam bursts.
“Norah—” There’s something in his voice, but I don’t let myself analyze it.
“I’ll see you at the site later,” I say, sharper than I mean to. I turn and don’t look back.
Rowan doesn’t say anything more as I walk towards my tent, and after a moment, I hear his footsteps moving in the opposite direction.
I feel the tug of the bond pull tight as he moves farther away, reminding me that I can never escape him.
Not fully. I duck into my tent, zipping the flap shut behind me a little too hard, my fingers shaking.
The moment I’m alone, my knees give out.
I collapse onto my sleeping bag, burying my face in my pillow.
The tears come hot and fast, soaking my pillowcase. My chest heaves with sobs I can’t control, and I press my face into my pillow, trying to stifle the sound.
Of course he doesn’t want me.
The thought claws at my insides, sharp and relentless. I’m just a student. Too young, too inexperienced, too dangerous for his career. The bond is the only reason he even looked at me twice. Without it, I’m nothing to him.
Nothing.
I press my fists against my eyes, trying to stem the tears, but it’s useless. “I don’t want the bond broken,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I want him. And I want him to want me back.”
The words taste bitter in my mouth. Bitter and foolish and silly.
I cry until my throat is raw and my eyes are puffy, until my tears run dry. Until the only thing left is the hollow ache in my chest.
I suck in a shuddering breath, then another, calming my breathing. I can’t lie in here and cry all day. I have work to do.
I drag myself up, blot at my face with a tissue, and grab my notebook. Work. That’s what I need to focus on.
I head to the dig site, my boots sinking into the loamy forest floor. The forest is quiet, the mist clinging to the green canopy above.
The dig site is alive with the sounds of scraping trowels and murmured conversation, the clink of metal on stone. I welcome the noise, the distraction. I set my notebook down, gather my tools and get to work, returning to an area we were working on yesterday.
Soon, I lose myself to the rhythm of the work, the weight of the tools in my hand grounding me as fragments of a long-forgotten settlement come to life.
I pick up a shard of pottery, dusting it off carefully, looking at the markings on it.
The sigils are similar in style to the ones on the bonding altar—
My stomach gives a little lurch. Nope. Not thinking about that.
I set the shard aside into a mesh-bottomed basket and continue to work.
A few others have been working on digging deeper into the layers of soil, creating a pit deep enough that a ladder is needed to access it.
Already, several artifacts have been uncovered in the pit, making it a promising site.
I move over to join them, assessing and cataloguing any bits that emerge.
A few hours pass like this, the sun climbing higher and burning off the mist. Sweat beads on my forehead and rolls down my spine, making my shirt stick to me. I shrug out of my fleece and lay it on a nearby table.
“Norah.” Jill calls my name. “Do you think you could work on a site sketch? We’re down another layer, and we need to mark where all the items are in relation to each other before we bring them up for further analysis.”
I nod and grab my notebook. “Sure thing.” It takes me a minute to find a pencil, and then I circle the pit, looking down at the artifacts and how they’re positioned.
I look around, debating the best vantage point for my sketch, and ultimately decide to climb onto the small, mossy ledge above the pit.
It’s narrow and slightly slick thanks to the moss, but it’s sturdy enough.
I drop into a crouch, flip open my notebook, and start to draw. The lines of the pit, the scattered fragments of bone and pottery, the way the roots of the ancient trees weave through the earth like veins. My pencil moves quickly, capturing the details as best I can.
I lean forward, peering into the pit and assessing what I’ve drawn so far.
Then the stone shifts.
One moment I’m balanced, the next…I’m not. My stomach lurches as I pitch forward, arms windmilling as I try to regain my balance.
But it’s no use, and I fall.