Chapter 8 #2
I hadn’t the heart to tell her it didn’t seem like she knew how to make those even, but I applauded her effort.
I took the stick from her hand, separated it in half, and tossed it in the pan.
I’d never been the best cook in the world, but compared to Miss Celine I might as well be a five-star chef.
Somehow, I’d expected she’d be good at everything.
She seemed perfect. Put together. Eh, everyone had their weaknesses; me being the prime example.
With the butter melted, I plopped two ladles full of batter in.
“Oh, three actually,” she said.
“Three?” I thought we were the only ones stuck behind for the weekend.
“Yes, Cillian will be down at some point. And, thanks to you, he might have something edible to look forward to.” She laughed and handed over an egg.
My heart fluttered. If he was on campus for break, he would know I was too, yet he hadn’t shown up to class earlier, hadn’t bothered to keep Celine company while she cooked.
Well, that confirmed my suspicions enough.
He had been avoiding me. I mean, with all the nightmare talk, it was understandable.
I’m sure I sounded like a freak. Huh, who’d have thought admitting the whole I walked out a second-story window thing was a bad idea.
A sigh slipped between my lips. Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut?
Just been normal like everyone—a shadow peeked around the corner of the unlit entryway, there and gone in a flash.
Heat nipped my fingertip.
“Ah,” I hissed, and snapped my hand to my face. Not the worst burn, but it was already bubbling up.
Celine snatched my hand and traced a gentle touch along the sore. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, it’s just a blister. No big deal.”
“Hmm.” She poked the spot. “It looks alright to me?”
I brought my finger back to my face. No redness, no blisters, nothing. But I’d seen it. I knew I had. “That’s … weird.”
“Maybe it felt worse than it was?”
I scanned her hand and returned to mine. “Yeah, maybe.”
But I’d seen it! I wasn’t that crazy … was I? My gaze bounced between my hand and the doorway, finally landing on Miss Celine again. “That door”—I pointed, the space devoid of shadow now—“what’s behind it?”
“Oh that? It’s an old maids’ hallway from back before the school was founded.”
Maids … just like Roxie mentioned. “Where does it lead?”
“Well, nowhere now. When the county took over, they bricked it off five feet up. They said something about a strange phenomenon around vertigo? Construction workers kept having strange visions and falling. Asbestos poisoning, if you ask me. These old manors are riddled with the stuff. Mold does things to people’s minds. ”
Vertigo … visions … “Uh-huh.”
“From what I heard, it led clear up to the roof back in the day.”
I nodded, afraid to press any further in case my mind found yet another thing to be haunted by.
But if that hallway was bricked up like she’d said …
how did someone peek around that corner?
Not to mention, the school was empty. I shook my head.
Mold, just mold. Sue needed to get that shit checked, asap.
When the eggs finally finished, no further burns on my part, we made our way to the dining room.
“Thanks again,” she said, and took the daintiest bite. “You’re quite the chef. Maybe I’ll talk to Sue about getting you involved in the meals?”
A smile caught my cheeks. “That’s nice, but it’s only eggs. Nothing fancy.”
“Fancy enough for my tastes.”
“Thanks.” I swirled my fork around in the runny egg yolk in an effort to distract myself from the very empty space at her side as the full plate before it went cold. The space where Cillian should have been. Or at least, where I wanted him to be anyway.
Miss Celine read the question on my face. “I’ll wrap it up and put it in the refrigerator for him. He’s upstairs resting, I’m sure.”
Resting or avoiding? Either way, who cares. Not me. I shoveled another mouthful.
She laid her napkin over her picked-at plate and folded her hands in her lap. “So, any big plans tonight?”
“Eh, some more reading.”
“My, aren’t you quite the scholar.”
“Just enjoy a good distraction is all,” I said between bites.
“Oh, come now. You must be. You read so frequently.” She smiled. “Do you have a favorite subject then?”
Sure, if dark, dream-related weirdness was an actual subject. “Not really, just whatever catches my attention.”
Celine nodded, skepticism plain in her expression. “History has always been mine.”
“What kind of history?”
“Celtic, mostly. I’ve always had a fascination with nineteenth-century Ireland. Such struggle and heartache.”
I looked down at my plate, knowing full-well what she meant, and my stomach soured: The Great Famine.
My body threatened to shut down after an afternoon without a snack, let alone no food at all.
“I can’t imagine … dying from starvation.
Nobody should suffer like that. Especially when so many people have the means to help! ”
“I agree. Those with the resources to help should, but until humanity decides to look deep and truly learn from past mistakes? I fear history will only repeat itself. Power corrupts. It dehumanizes.” She met my gaze, the edge of her lips ticking up.
“But you know what really gets me? Is that after everything, they pressed on together—united. I believe that is the true moral of history. Perseverance. That even in the face of tragedy, there are still those out there willing to fight for what is right. To endure, in spite of heartache and what others might define as defeat. But hey, that’s just one elder millennial’s opinion. ”
She smiled and rose from her seat, but her words sank into my bones, specifically that final piece: what others might define as defeat.
That bit of truth hit me like a tidal wave—how one person might view a situation as defeat, while another might see it as an act of unwavering perseverance.
That in the end, the outcome is how we choose to define it, how we choose to press on.
Celine collected our plates, balancing Cillian’s untouched meal on her elbow.
“Here, let me—”
She started toward the kitchen. “It’s alright, I’ll handle these. You go read, yeah?”
“You sure?”
Her eyes brightened. “Absolutely.”
Again, I smiled. A once foreign gesture made new and more present than I’d anticipated since my arrival at Saint Peter’s. “Well, if you say—”
“Oh, wait, wait.” She hurried into the kitchen, placed the dishes near the sink, and rummaged below the counter. Her palm opened to reveal my little tan sleeping pill inside. “You can’t forget this. Oh, water, I almost forgot.”
“No need,” I said and swallowed the pill dry. “All good.”
“Wow, okay, well … good then. Is there anything else you need before you head upstairs? A cuppa tea, maybe?”
Tea: Cillian’s nightmare remedy. Worth a shot.
Mug filled to the brim with jasmine, I returned to my dorm. Though the nightmares had ceased, the fear of their imminent return weighed on me. What if those restful nights were a fluke? A trick my brain played to get me to let my guard down?
My stomach turned to brick as my bedroom door clicked shut behind me.
I choked down steaming mouthfuls of tea, tried to convince myself to stay awake, but the heaviness in my eyelids crept in.
Collecting my skin, I pinched, jogging myself awake until my arm sat pretty and pink.
But sleep won out, crumpling me on my mattress, a single silent tear rolling down my cheek.