Chapter Thirty - Five
Chapter
Thirty-Five
SAGE
Islip into sleep unwillingly. I'm somewhere new, Elias' quarters maybe? What just happened between us? It felt like what happened with Malachi, but it couldn't be, could it?
But before I can fully process what it might mean, sleep claims me, dragging me down into darkness.
And then, the dream begins.
I'm seven years old, sitting in the backseat of my parents' car.
Rain patters against the windows, the windshield wipers keeping steady rhythm as we drive through the storm.
Dad's humming along to some old song on the radio, Mom's head resting against the passenger window, her breath fogging the glass.
"You okay back there, bookworm?" Dad calls, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
I nod, clutching my library book tighter. "Can we read another chapter when we get home?"
"Sure thing, sweetheart," he says, smiling. "Just as soon as we?—"
Bright lights flood the car. A deafening horn. Mom's scream.
Then nothing.
The scene shifts, and I'm standing in the rain at the cemetery, my small hand engulfed in my aunt Patricia's larger one. Her grip is firm but not comforting. Practical. Like everything about her.
"Stand up straight," she murmurs, tugging at my shoulder. "People are watching."
I try, but I feel like I might shatter if I move too much. The twin caskets before me—one large, one smaller—seem impossible. How can they contain my parents? My dad with his booming laugh, my mom with her gentle hands?
Someone says my name, and I look up into the face of a neighbor or family friend—I can't tell which. They're bending down, trying to look me in the eye.
"Poor thing," they say, not to me but about me. "So quiet. Hasn't shed a tear."
I haven't. I can't. The tears are locked somewhere deep inside, in a place I can't reach.
"She's in shock," someone else whispers.
I'm not. I'm just... empty. Like someone reached inside and scooped out everything that mattered.
Later, at Aunt Patricia's house—my house now—I sit on the edge of a twin bed in a room that isn't mine. The walls are beige. The bedspread is beige. Even the curtains are beige, like someone was afraid of color.
Aunt Patricia stands in the doorway, arms folded. "You'll start school on Monday. I've already spoken to the principal. They know about your... situation."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Your clothes are in the dresser. Bathroom is down the hall. Dinner's at six." She delivers this information efficiently, like she's reading from a manual on how to care for orphaned nieces.
"I..." My voice cracks. "I left my book. In the car."
Her expression softens, just slightly. "I'll see about getting you a new one."
But she doesn't ask which book. Doesn't understand that it wasn't just any book—it was the last story my father started reading to me. The last adventure we were supposed to finish together.
She leaves, closing the door with a quiet click.
I curl into myself, small hands clutching at the beige bedspread. And finally, finally, I cry.
The dream shifts again.
I'm ten, sitting alone at lunch, a book propped against my milk carton. The cafeteria buzzes with noise—laughter, shouting, the clatter of trays—but I've built a fortress of solitude around myself. The words on the page are my shield against the chaos.
"Is that the weird girl?"
The whisper carries from the table behind me. I don't look up, just turn the page, pretending I didn't hear.
"Yeah, the one who lives with her aunt. I heard her parents died in a car crash."
"Gross. Is that why she never talks to anyone?"
"Probably. My mom says she's traumatized or whatever."
I turn another page, not reading anymore, just going through the motions. The characters in my book wouldn't care about whispers. They'd be brave, would stand up and say something clever.
I just sit, silent.
"Hey, book girl."
I look up. Three girls stand across from me, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and that specific cruelty children specialize in.
"Is it true you don't have parents?"
The question hits like a physical blow. I swallow. "My parents died."
"That's so sad," one says, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "So who takes care of you? Like, do you cook your own food and stuff?"
"My aunt?—"
"Does she even want you?" another girl cuts in. "Or did she, like, have to take you?"
I stare at them, something cold and defensive building in my chest. "She's my family."
The first girl leans forward. "My mom says your aunt never wanted kids. That's why she never got married."
"Your mom doesn't know anything about my aunt," I say quietly, but there's a tremor in my voice.
"Ooh, she's getting mad," the third girl giggles. "Careful, she might curse you or something."
"I heard her talking to herself in the bathroom yesterday," one stage-whispers to the others. "Total freak."
I wasn't talking to myself. I was reading aloud, softly, the way my dad used to read to me. The memory of his voice was fading, and sometimes, if I read the way he did, I could almost hear him again.
But I don't explain. I just gather my book and lunch tray and leave, walking stiffly to the far end of the cafeteria where I can sit alone.
That night, I ask Aunt Patricia if I can eat lunch in the library instead.
"Why?" she asks, not looking up from her crossword puzzle.
"I like it better there."
She glances at me, pen poised mid-air. "Are those girls bothering you again?"
I'm surprised she noticed. "Sometimes."
She sighs, setting down her pen. "Sage, you need to learn how to stand up for yourself. The world isn't kind to people who stay quiet."
"I know," I whisper.
"Your mother was like that too," she says, and I look up sharply. She rarely mentions my parents. "Always had her nose in a book. Never stood up to anyone."
"That's not true," I protest. "Mom was brave."
"She was," Aunt Patricia agrees unexpectedly. "But not with people. She let them walk all over her. Don't make the same mistake."
I want to defend my mother, to say she was perfect, but the truth is hazier. I remember how she would sometimes let salespeople talk her into buying things we didn't need because she hated saying no. How she would agree to volunteer for school events even when she was exhausted.
"I don't know how," I admit finally.
Aunt Patricia looks at me for a long moment. "You start by deciding what matters enough to fight for. And then you don't back down."
It's the closest thing to actual advice she's ever given me.
The scene shifts again.
I'm sixteen, standing in the high school hallway, clutching my acceptance letter to Columbia University. Full scholarship. My hands are shaking slightly.
"I got in," I tell Aunt Patricia that night, sliding the letter across the kitchen table.
She picks it up, reading it carefully, her face giving nothing away. Then she looks up at me, and there's something in her eyes I've never seen before.
Pride.
"Well done," she says simply.
Two words. That's all. But coming from her, it feels monumental.
"Thank you," I say, and I mean for more than just the congratulations. For the roof over my head. For the quiet stability. For doing her best, even if her best was distant and practical rather than warm.
She seems to understand because she nods once, briskly. "Your parents would have been proud."
The words hang between us, fragile and precious.
"I miss them," I say, the admission slipping out before I can stop it.
"I know," she replies. "I miss my sister too."
It's the most personal conversation we've ever had.
The dream shifts again, and now I'm in my dorm room at Columbia, the walls lined with books, my small sanctuary in the chaos of college life. I've made a few acquaintances but no real friends. It's easier that way. Safer.
A guy from my Medieval Literature class asked me out yesterday. I said no automatically, the refusal like a shield I've learned to deploy at the first sign of personal interest.
"You always do that," my roommate commented afterward. "Push people away before they get close."
"I don't push people away," I argued.
She gave me a knowing look. "When was the last time you let anyone see the real you?"
The question haunts me, even in the dream.
The real me. Who is that, exactly?
The bookish girl who finds more comfort in fictional worlds than the real one? The orphan who learned early that love can be snatched away in an instant? The quiet observer who sees too much but says too little?
The scene blurs, shifts, and suddenly I'm standing in a forest clearing, surrounded by seven women in flowing robes. Their faces are both ancient and timeless, their eyes filled with wisdom and sorrow.
The Seven Mothers.
"You've hidden long enough, daughter," one says, her voice like wind through autumn leaves.
"I'm not hiding," I protest.
Another steps forward, her dark eyes piercing. "You've been hiding your whole life. From pain. From connection. From your own power."
"I didn't know I had power," I whisper.
"Didn't you?" a third asks gently. "Haven't you always sensed you were different? That there was something more?"
I think about the strange occurrences throughout my life—books falling from shelves when I was upset, lights flickering when I was frightened, the time in college when my roommate's abusive boyfriend suddenly tripped and broke his arm after he raised his hand to her.
"I thought it was coincidence," I say weakly.
They smile in unison, knowing and sad.
"You were born to remember," the first Mother says again. "Not just our history, but yourself. Who you truly are."
"And who is that?" I ask.
"Someone who doesn't hide," the second replies. "Someone who stands her ground. Someone who faces her fears."
"Even Malachi?" I ask before I can stop myself.
They exchange glances, something unspoken passing between them.
"Especially Malachi," the third says. "He is bound to you in ways neither of you yet understand."
"He frightens me," I admit.
"Good," says a fourth, her voice strong and clear. "Fear keeps us sharp. But do not let it keep you small."
"What should I do?" I ask, desperation creeping into my voice.
"Stop hiding," they say in unison. "Face him. Face yourself."
The clearing begins to fade, the Mothers becoming translucent.
"Wait!" I call. "I still don't understand?—"
"You will," the first Mother says, her voice echoing as she disappears. "When you stop hiding."
I wake with a start, my heart pounding in my chest.
The dream clings to me, more vivid than any normal dream—a mixture of memory and message. The grief of losing my parents. The loneliness of growing up with a guardian who provided stability but little affection. The habit of seeking safety in solitude.
And the Mothers' words, echoing in my mind.
Stop hiding. Face him. Face yourself.
I sit up in bed, wrapping my arms around my knees as I stare into the darkness. The truth settles over me, uncomfortable but undeniable. I've spent my entire life retreating from challenges, finding safety in books and silence rather than confronting difficult realities.
I've been hiding from Malachi since the moment I met him—not just physically, but emotionally. From the intensity of his presence. From the strange pull I feel toward him.
From what it might mean if I stopped running.
He is bound to you in ways neither of you yet understand.
I take a deep breath, resolve hardening in my chest.
No more hiding. No more running.
Tomorrow, I will find Malachi. I will face him directly, ask the questions I've been afraid to ask.
It's time to discover who I truly am—and what binds me to a warlock who claims to own me.