Chapter 44
The oldest bonds are forged in blood—not all remain intact.
—Tapestries of Power: A Study of Magickal Bloodlines and Lineage
Ifind Noa already seated in Advanced Potions, his voice rising above the gentle clatter of glassware and Professor Ching’s gravelly instructions. He and Finn are recapping the dinner like it was some exhilarating sporting match—laughing, mimicking guests with theatrical flair.
Noa turns to me as I sit down. “Where did you go last night? You slipped out early.”
“I was tired,” I reply simply. “Had some last-minute cramming to do for my conflicts and rebellions exam.”
It isn’t a lie. The moment I got back to my room, I opened my textbooks and let history drown out the present—names of uprisings and treaties pushing away the memory of silver eyes and thoughts I don’t let rise to the surface.
Noa’s expression softens. His voice lowers, nearly lost beneath Professor Ching’s demonstration of boiling nettleweed. “I’m sorry I left you alone. My parents had me meeting half the delegation. I didn’t know Thorne would make the announcement in public like that.”
“It’s fine, Noa,” I murmur, leaning forward to kiss him—soft, quick. “I had a great time. Thank you for inviting me.”
He squeezes my hand, a smile on his lips, eyes still bright from yesterday’s events.
* * *
I meet my mom for lunch in the afternoon, grabbing takeout from the mess hall to have a picnic in the spring bloom the campus finds itself in.
The quad is livelier now—students lingering longer after class, coats unbuttoned, laughter echoing as tension briefly gives way to the spring air.
The temperature is crisp but no longer biting, carrying with it the scents of magnolia and crushed clover.
Rain comes on quick some days, misty showers that leave the paths slick and the rooftops shining.
Umbrellas flick open with practiced ease, though a few water-wielders stroll bare-headed, content to let the drizzle slide over them.
We head to the Lakehouse, where they’ve set up an awning and picnic tables across the back deck, perfect for meals or study dates overlooking the view.
Crocuses bloom along the lake path, and the willows sway with fresh green tips, their branches dipping low in the breeze.
The air carries warmth now—subtle but sure—rising off the water of the lake as birds return to the trees overhead.
My mom sits across from me, and Gavrail next to her after she insisted he join us.
He’s quiet, polite. He hasn’t looked at me once.
We keep things light—weather, classes, the latest Whittaker gossip.
Neither of us mentions the night before.
Both of us are content to let the ghosts of our pasts stay there, for the moment.
Eventually, I ask, careful not to put too much behind it: “Mom… did Dad ever talk about his past much? Before you met?”
She pauses, smile faltering. “Your father was never much of a talker, Celeste. But yes… he had a past, like we all do.” Her voice softens as her eyes go distant—heavy with the weight of memory, dark and full of sorrow, the look she has whenever she thinks about Dad.
I press further. “When did he meet Headmaster Thorne?”
She frowns, thoughtful. “Your father and Evander were close before I ever met him. They were old schoolmates and worked together for the government, right after college, I believe. Something to do with Magick-tracing, I think. There was some special case Thorne kept in touch about, even after they stopped working together. Something to do with a Magick and her child who disappeared. I can’t for the life of me remember their names.
But I always assumed it was a long-lost relative of your dad.
And now, seeing you—your water magick—I wonder if that’s how you inherited it. ”
For a second, the lake sounds too loud in my ears—every lap of water rings like a warning.
“Yeah… maybe.” The lie unsettles me but I don’t say more.
“They lost touch for a while, though, soon after we were married. Life happens, as you know.” She waves a hand casually in the air.
“But he came to your father’s memorial. He was incredibly helpful.
Told me he’d take care of your application personally.
” She beams at me at that. “And look at you now. Thriving. Magick. Gosh, I’m so proud of you, honey. ”
Something isn’t sitting right. Gavrail leans back in his chair, arms crossed. I can tell he thinks so too. He shifts beside her, subtly. But I can see the slight tightening of his jaw.
I hesitate before asking, “Was Dad ever married before?”
Her expression hardens. “Heavens, why would you ask that?” she snaps, then reins herself in. “I would know if your father had another life before us, Celeste.” Her eyes are stern, like she’s scolding a child version of me from my past.
Gavrail catches my eye, giving me a barely perceptible shake of his head.
So she doesn’t know about Dad, then.
The warning in Gavrail’s eyes is clear—the less she knows, the safer she is. And suddenly, I’m starting to realize the delicate line that Gavrail has had to walk all these years. The intricate contradictions that occur between protection and lies when it comes to the people you love.
The conversation turns back to midterms and projects due, Professor Barrows’s essay on the ethical limits of elemental state manipulation. My mom asks Gavrail about his classes, his friends, then politely asks after his father, who leaves tomorrow.
“Oh, Gavrail, that reminds me.” She reaches into her bag. “A package was delivered to me this morning. From your mother.”
Gavrail freezes. I see it—the tensing of his shoulders, the flicker of something sharp behind his eyes.
“I was sorry to hear about your parents’ divorce,” she continues gently. “Your mother wrote the loveliest note. Said she was happy you and Celeste were at the same school and together again after all this time. She mentioned she hasn’t heard from you in years.”
Gavrail stays silent.
My mother, undeterred, presses on. Her eyes fix on him, pain and heartbreak at the thought of a mother and son estranged.
“I don’t know what came between you two, but she’s your mother, Gavrail.
That bond matters. Nothing is worth losing that.
” She reaches across the table to squeeze his hand, as if warmth alone could heal the wounds left behind by years of silence.
“Minka Senkova was always a complicated woman,” she says.
“But she loves you. That I know.” She hands him the package—a rectangle wrapped in plain brown paper.
Her eyes are curious. “Strange that she sent it to me instead of directly to you.”
Gavrail takes the package carefully, as if it might cut him. He opens it slowly, tearing off the brown wrapping paper. It’s a book, spine cracked and cover faded with age. His fingers trace the edge as he looks at the title:
Tales from the Breath of Stone.
I try to hide my gasp of surprise. Gavrail glances at me, eyes wide with warning and something else.
How did she know?
My skin prickles like I’ve stepped into cold water fully clothed.
I look between the book, Gavrail, and my mother—still sipping tea, lost in the gentle lie of a perfect afternoon.
I realize now how secrets make ghosts of the people we love.
And I wonder how many more haunt the edges of this school.