Chapter 4 #2
Symond shrugged. “Um, as lessons, I suppose.”
“How?”
“They would make sure you learned from them.” He paused. “Extra assignments. Using other people’s mistakes as examples. In extreme cases, maybe punishment.”
“Extreme cases?”
Symond nodded. “Yeah, you know, stealing from the alchemy labs, going places you shouldn’t…” His mouth hung open, his eyes sliding back and forth looking at nothing in particular but seeing only gaps. “I… I think someone was made a ward for acting against the Empire.”
Florence folded her hands on the table. “Were you punished?”
“Maybe? Probably. I don’t really remember being punished.”
Florence tilted her head slightly. “Not at all”
“Not really. Maybe a dark room. Isolated, perhaps. I’m not sure.”
Violette watched Florence closely now.
“That’s what I remember,” he said sharply. “I worked. I trained. I stayed out of other people’s way.”
Violette knew that wasn’t true.
Florence leaned back a fraction. “Did you believe The Institute treated you fairly?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Symond said, while his eyes stayed glazed over, no doubt searching for some memory to back up his claim.
Florence leaned forward until her shadow fell across his face. “You erased your memories.”
Violette’ s lungs froze mid-breath, her fingernails digging half-moons into her palms.
Symond’s jaw tightened, but his eyes never wavered. “I did.”
“Why?”
He looked away, his face remained a perfect mask, but something dark flickered behind his eyes. “Because it was getting worse. Because… because it seemed like the last option before just ending it all.”
“What was getting worse?” Florence asked.
“I don’t… the memories, they started haunting me.”
Florence watched him like a puzzle missing half its pieces.
“So, what you remember,” she said slowly, “is an education.”
“Yes.”
“A fair one.”
“Yes.”
“And everything else,” Florence added, “is just gone.”
Symond’s eyes flicked briefly toward Violette. Then back.
“Yes.”
Florence sat very still.
To Violette, it felt like watching two incompatible truths occupy the same space.
“Thank you,” Florence said at last. “That will be all for now.”
Symond pushed back from the table with stiff movements, chair legs scraping against the floor. His eyes darted once more toward Violette, pupils dilated, before he turned and walked out.
Florence exhaled once, slow and thoughtful. “Very interesting. How long ago?”
Violette’s mouth opened, then closed. Her loyalties pulled in opposite directions—to the truth Florence deserved, to the privacy Symond needed.
She pressed her fingertips against the table’s edge, steadying herself against the certainty that Florence would dig until she found the truth buried in Symond’s mind.
Violette weighed her words. “A few weeks.”
Florence’s eyebrows rose, a white scar of her forehead stretching taut.
Violette exhaled through her nose. “He was spiraling.”
“How?”
“Drinking,” she said. “Too much. Too often.” A pause. “Angrier than usual.”
Florence tilted her head. “Violent?”
“Desperate,” Violette corrected. “And reckless.”
“Reckless how?”
“He tried to stop a child from being sent to The Institute,” she said carefully. “Tried to convince him to come to The Hive instead.”
Florence stilled. “A child,” she repeated.
“Yes. I sent the kid back home.”
The creases on Florence’s forehead smoothed, as something behind her eyes sparked to life.
Her gaze drifted back to the door. “Interesting.”
Violette felt the word land wrong.
Florence looked back at her. “And you let him forget?”
Violette met those calculating eyes evenly, her spine straightening against the hard wooden chair. “I didn’t have the right to stop him.” Her voice remained level, though her fingertips pressed white against her thigh beneath the table.
Florence tilted her head a fraction, strands of chestnut hair catching the light as she considered that. “You believe remembering would harm him.”
“I believe forcing it would,” Violette said.
Florence leaned forward, her fingertips forming a steeple beneath her chin. “You can’t heal what you refuse to examine.”
Violette didn’t flinch, though a muscle flickered at the corner of her mouth. “You can’t heal what you rip open either.”
“Even with alchemy,” she said slowly, “the memories aren’t gone. They’re buried.”
Violette’s jaw tightened.
“And buried things,” Florence continued, her eyes never leaving Violette’s face, “have a way of resurfacing.”
“When he’s ready,” Violette said.
Florence’s smile was small and thoughtful. “Readiness is relative.”
“So is trust.”
Florence rose, smoothing her sleeves, the fabric rustling softly in the quiet room. “You’re protective of him.”
“He’s my responsibility,” Violette said.
Florence met her gaze, assessing. “For now.”
For now.
Florence walked out.
Violette stayed behind a moment longer, heart steady but heavy.
Her fingers trembled against her thighs as she pictured Florence systematically dismantling Symond’s fragile peace. She wanted to know what happened to all of them and the more elusive the memories became, the more determined Florence would be to unearth them.