Chapter 53 Avalynne
AVALYNNE
Two weeks pass in a blur of classes, meals, and stolen moments with my professor.
The weather has turned bitter, and winter pushes hard onto the island, draping the rugged coastline and the spires of the convent in ice and snow.
In the daytime, the sky swirls in a sea of angry grays and whites, but under cover of night, it roils.
Tonight, as I sit alone in the library, hail drums an irregular beat against the roof as the wind batters the convent's stony bulwark.
I look up yet again from my assignment, my attention zeroing in on a tree branch buffeting the windows. It screeches against the glass before the wind pulls it away.
I sigh, chewing on my bottom lip, and eye the unfinished paper in front of me.
I should have been done with it hours ago. Well, days ago, if I'm being honest.
I'm supposed to explain the historical significance of the can opener, but I'm three abandoned drafts in and certain of a failing grade.
I thought Professor Thatcher was joking when he gave me the assignment earlier this week. I actually laughed when he said it. My laughter died from blunt-force embarrassment, though, when I realized I was the only one laughing. To my horror, he then asked me what exactly I found so amusing.
I wanted to evaporate from existence.
I swear the man levels up his life force by making me squirm.
I blink down at the nonsense I've written and debate trashing my third draft and starting over. It's not even a choice, really. If I turn this in, Xade's going to give me that look and toss it in the trash for me.
That look says so much without words, and he knows it. It is pyric judgment and the promise of punishment. It wrings my lungs like a sponge and sparks a wildfire in the pit of my belly. It's a thousand sharp-tongued rebukes and a withering appraisal rolled into one excruciating, perfect moment.
I love it and loathe it at the same time—all unblinking coal-black eyes, the ghost of a scoff, and his withering rebuke.
Lord only knows how many times Xade's given it to his students during his tenure, but I like to think he now reserves it for me.
I must be a masochist because it makes me liquefy.
The branch screeches across the window again, and my attention snaps to it and then back down to the damned paper.
I crumble the page between my fingers, ball it up, and discard it on the table in front of me with the others. Maybe if I had turned it in, Xade would have given me that exquisite look and spanked me with the ruler.
If only I were so lucky.
The thought reminds me that he hasn't used his ruler in days, and there goes my concentration again. I should just give up on the paper at this point.
I live for our time together.
When he traps my hands against the wall and kisses me like I'm the air he needs to breathe.
Or when he lets me crawl onto his lap, straddle him on his office chair, and loosen his tie while he silently watches me.
Or when he can't stand it a second longer and pins me between the hard plank of his office door and him.
I crave those moments, though I doubt a lifetime would be enough for me.
He's unlike anyone I've ever met.
He's wickedly smart and funny in a dry way that makes me giggle at the most inappropriate of times—like when we're in a classroom surrounded by eternally professed nuns. The man knows exactly what to say and how to say it to melt me into goo, and he likes to do so without warning.
Xade is the only reason I can stand to be at Saint Margaret's, counting the days until I'm reunited with Isabella.
We haven't talked about what will happen when we leave the convent, but I have to believe we'll figure it out because the thought of losing him is unbearable.
Once my sister and I are together again, I'll figure out a truce with Grandpapa, too.
I have to, though my sister certainly won't like it.
My grandfather won't either.
But we are everything each other has in this world, and I can't just give up on that, no matter how cruel my grandfather has been.
He saved Isa and me when he didn't even know us.
He didn't have to take us in or accept the responsibility of raising two young kids.
He showed up when no one else did, sparing us from the foster care system and certain separation.
He gave us our only chance to grow up together, and I think my parents would want me to try and fix this rift between us.
The way Grandpapa tells it, a stupid argument caused their falling out, something he can't even remember all these years later.
I won't let history repeat itself. Family forgives, right? It doesn't mean I have to forget.
I am more than the sum of my history. My grandfather can be, too.
Screeeeeccchhh.
The sound brings me back to the library and the tree bludgeoning the window.
I abandon my attempts at homework, stand, and stretch.
I leave the library and start down the hall, my breath fogging in the frigid air.
The convent offers little protection from the bitter winter outside, and the nuns have taken to wearing wool scapulars and wimples when they roam the halls.
I wrap my arms tighter around myself and wish I had remembered my jacket, but I've left it with the rest of my things at the library. I rub my hands together and cup them in front of my mouth, breathing hot air between my fingers.
The corridors are quiet except for the storm raging outside as I walk toward Xade's room.
Hopefully, he's not asleep like the nuns at this unholy hour, but lately, he sleeps even less than I do.
He never complains, but I see it in the weariness tugging at the corners of his eyes and the lines etched above his brows.
I don't know if it's the bitter cold, my grandfather, or something else that's bothering him.
I haven't pressed him, but soon, I'm going to force the issue and lock him in his quarters until he rests.
In the night, I take the dark turns with practiced ease. At this point, I could find my way through the halls to Xade, bound and blindfolded. I exhale warmth into my clasped hands again as my thoughts stray to my sister. Not a day goes by when I don't think of her, but I know she's safe.
Xade's gleaned enough information from his terse conversations with my grandfather to know Isabella is away at college.
I don't know where, but it's comforting to know he allowed her to go.
I took the brunt of the punishment, just as I intended, and Isa got slack in the leash grandfather keeps around her neck.
She's certainly somewhere he chose, though, where fun is a naughty word and life revolves around grade point averages.
I turn down an intersecting corridor and head toward the stairwell. I continue through the darkness, reeling to an abrupt stop when I hear Reverend Mother's voice. My heart trips in its beat as I plaster myself to the wall beside me.
She's here.
She hasn't been here in weeks.
I'd hoped she wasn't coming back.
Her next words stop my heart completely.
"Immorier must not be made aware," she snaps, the words ice cold. "The auction will proceed."
Immorier.
Only three people living in the world have that name—me, my sister, and my grandfather.
What. The. Hell.
Auction.
The only auctions I know about are those the church holds to fund its various endeavors—charities, orphanages, missionary work, and the like.
I risk a quick peek around the corner and find the door to Reverend Mother's office open.
I can't see her at this angle. I promised myself I wouldn't care about whatever she's hiding.
I've deliberately ignored the strange truck deliveries, how the Devil of Saint Margaret's called her mother, and the cryptic prohibition on entering the crypt below the convent.
If she left me alone, I'd leave her and her secrets alone.
But this is my family, and we have already given so much to the church.
Grandpapa says we singularly funded it for centuries as the world grew secular and cynical.
He says that without our family's assistance, much of the church and its outreach work would have died long ago.
Grandpapa himself has donated immense sums and priceless art—masterpieces by Caravaggio, Titian, and Bernini—to the church.
So, what can't he know? And how does it involve the auctions?
If the old crone thinks she can destroy our family, she'll learn the hard way.
My grandfather and my sister would fight for our legacy. So will I.
I lean around the corner, straining to hear more. Her words come in fragments.
"Arrangements … quick … difficult to hide … they suspect."
I can't make sense of it before the phone hits the receiver. Papers shuffle before footsteps grow closer.
Shit!
My heart parachutes into my throat as I duck into the shadows. Reverend Mother doesn't spot me as she strides past, her brows pinched and her black habit trailing the floor behind her.
I don't think. I just act.
Before the door to her office swings shut, I slip inside, the door closing behind me.
It feels like I'm stepping into enemy territory.
The air is cold, more frigid than even the wide-open halls of the main corridors.
Thick, heavy curtains flank a large window on the opposite side of the room, and shadow masks everything—the ancient bookcases, the desk and chairs, and the empty hearth.
The sole light comes from a small lamp on Reverend Mother's desk that casts trembling silhouettes across the walls.