Chapter 16
Rita’s gaze drifted from my sketchbook to me and back again. “This is beautiful, Fey.”
“Thank you.” A smile tugged at my cheeks.
For once, I agreed with her. It was light, encouraging, something altogether different than the darkness my usual style depicted.
I’d taken my time, layering one line after the next to incorporate each aspect in as visceral detail as I could muster: the stroke of a flame, the backlit night sky, the darkened tips of the redwoods beyond.
I had let the emotions seize me, push my hand across the blank page, allowing it to whisk me away from the terror I’d awoken from that morning.
All the fear and the chaos fell away as I saw Cillian reflected back at me in charcoal; his face alive with the sheer joy his magic brought him the night he’d introduced me to it.
“What does it represent?” She asked.
“Art; I wanted to try and capture the feeling of creation.”
“What a wonderful sentiment. I’m so glad to see you’ve been utilizing your gifts. And, might I assume this change in artistic vision has something to do with your sleep?” She crossed her legs, pulling her glasses from her face. “Has the Trazadone helped then?”
“It has.” It wasn’t entirely a lie; it did help me sleep.
Well, forced me to anyway, but the nightmares—or whatever the hell they were—still came.
I fought the haunting melody rising up in me.
Just as Margaret had warned in her entries, Bethesda’s cursed song had cemented in my brain, embedded itself down deep.
The unsettling rhythm, her wicked laugh, and …
and that line about the Ancient Lores. What did that even mean?
“How do you feel about your newfound sleep schedule?” she asked.
Frightened? Unsure? Lost? Your world’s worst nightmare, the beast had said.
And the crows, the shape they’d made, was a mirror image of the brand on Cillian’s calf.
Any lingering delusions regarding coincidence flew out the window for the last time, and I decided to track the illusive man down and pry answers out of him if necessary.
He had to know more than he was letting on.
The question was: Why wouldn’t he tell me?
Why was he hiding things I needed to know? And—
“Fey?” Rita leaned closer. “Are you alright? You look so far away.”
I blinked back into the moment. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little foggy, I guess. I haven’t eaten yet today.”
“Well then, let’s pick this up again next Monday, shall we?”
I nodded and stood, retrieving my sketchbook from her.
“And Fey, good work. I can see your self-care is vastly improving.” She nodded in approval, her fresh braids bouncing in time.
I pursed my lips. “I’m trying.”
“No, you’re doing. And I’m proud of you.”
My emotions went to war as I rounded down the main stairs to meet Roxie.
While it was true I’d lived much of my life in chaos, somehow a glimmer of hope had seeped its way inside me.
Like a lightbulb flicked on in a dark room, I realized I didn’t have to focus solely on the fear or the panic.
I was more than my past mistakes and heartache.
Maybe I even deserved … happiness, if such a thing was even possible.
Roxie saw me before I saw her and snuck up from behind, wrapping her arms around me.
“Hey, stranger,” she said.
“Hey, stalker,” I teased and squeezed her back. “Someone’s excited to see me.”
“Well, duh!” She grinned, laced her arm through mine, and started us toward the dining room. “So, tell me everything. How was your weekend? What did you do?”
“Honestly? Not a whole lot.” You know, aside from discovering magic was real, that my nightmares were more than dreams, and that an entire room of centuries-old knowledge lived in the school’s underbelly. But, yeah. Nothing mostly. “Tell me about your trip.”
She told me everything, from the layout of her family’s cabin to her mom’s heavenly pumpkin bread and her younger sister’s uncanny ability to stick to her like a second shadow.
I was listening, truly, but despite my best effort my eyes still wandered.
I searched for Cillian, hoping that I’d stumble upon him in his usual spot at the backmost table, but no.
This man took ghosting to a whole new level.
Breakfast came and went, Sam and Roxie theatrically catching up on the details of each other’s trips, all arms and giggles and energy, while Josh and I stuffed our faces.
“I swear, when they get together it’s like Sam shotgunned a case of energy drinks,” he chuckled under his breath, his broad Samoan shoulders shaking.
“Honestly, I’m a little jealous,” I smirked. “I’m damn near useless before my third cup of coffee.”
“You and me both.” He reached over in a sly attempt to steal his girlfriend’s coffee, the small cup nearly disappearing in his clutch. “I think it’s safe to say she won’t be needing this.”
Sam swatted at him, her brow creasing. “Hey, I heard that!”
“Just trying to keep up with you, babe.” He winked and kissed her hand before finishing the remainder of the cup in one long swig.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she teased.
I raised my cup, downing my own in solidarity. From there, we devoured our plates in blissful silence, sharing a smile or two between bites.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Roxie said as we dumped our plates in the dish bucket. “I snagged your schedule this morning when I got mine.”
Right, new semester. I’d forgotten in the midst of the weekend’s events. She pulled her binder from her bag—color-coded dividers peeking out the sides—and removed a crisp paper, handing it to me.
“Looks like we don’t have as many classes together as last time.” She frowned.
First, Web Design: Miss Celine’s room. Second, Typography: Miss Celine’s room. Third, Digital Imaging: Miss Celine’s room. Fourth: Art History, Miss … Celine’s … room.
“Is that normal?” I blurted. “Having the same professor for every class?”
Roxie paused halfway down the classroom hall and referenced my paper. “I’ve never seen it like that, especially two semesters in a row. Maybe she’s just trying to make sure you acclimate?”
“Yeah … I mean, that makes sense.” I bit my cheek.
“Even weirder, she changed her homeroom to the east wing. But I guess everyone needs a change of scenery now and again, right?”
“Right.” While her reasoning made sense, my gut told me something else was going on. Something deeper.
The east wing proved similar to the previous semester’s classrooms. The same wainscoting throughout the school led me deeper into the labyrinth, the halls like arteries stretching outward from Saint Peter’s central heart.
Though, as I turned the left corner, I shivered.
The cold breeze filling the hall was in stark contrast to the warmth I’d felt on my way to Miss Celine’s previous room.
Maybe the shade coming off the trees just outside the wall of windows had something to do with it, or an unforeseen crack in the crown molding somewhere. Goose bumps crawled up my scalp.
A sparkle flashed in my periphery, drawing my attention to a sea of elaborate gold frames hung proudly on a dark-green wall to the left.
I made my way over to study the faces within and stepped sideways, one foot over the other as I inspected each.
Classic black-and-white photos gave way to modern times, slowly but surely.
What was unmissable in every decade, however, was that these young people, these put-together, picture-perfect beings, were Saint Peter’s praised alumni.
Sculptors, writers, painters, you name it.
I squinted, taking in the words written in tiny script beneath each.
Art featured in Louvre Museum of Paris, one said.
Special feature in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, claimed another.
My stomach burned with each new accomplishment.
Their successes were astronomical. They’d left once-in-a-lifetime marks on this world.
Changed minds, inspired hearts with their art.
And I … I had a sneaking suspicion that no matter how hard I tried, I’d never be able to say the same.
Hell, I’d be lucky to graduate with a C average at this rate.
But I guess inspiring the world hadn’t been the goal anyway.
Just a normal life, peaceful and sane, would be fine.
At least, that’s what I thought. Was that still what I wanted?
I blinked away the envy and doubt and started toward the classroom door ahead.
One thing was for sure, I’d get a solid F if I didn’t get my ass to class in time.
Sam kept me company through my first classes, and the day flew by. Come my last, Celine was downright exasperated. No matter what she did, the classroom refused to settle, too charged by the recent weekend’s excitement.
Finally, Celine grasped her quartz pendant—a crackle echoing in my ears—and with a wave the room silenced in unison; the class abandoned their conversations, every eye falling on her. I swallowed hard. Magic … it had to be.
Her stare settled on me, and I swore I saw reassurance there. Almost as if she were confirming my innermost thoughts, like she wanted me to know she’d used magic. I shuffled in my seat. How had I not connected the dots before? The crystal around her neck, the way I felt so calm in her presence …
“Welcome to Art History,” Celine started. “In this class we’ll cover a variety of topics, exploring the past through a critical eye that looks beyond the surface level. In order to understand art, we must first take stock of where the core beliefs of humanity have led us in society.”
She turned to the whiteboard and swirled the words Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity, and Islam.
“The main arcana of religions,” she said and pointed to the board.
“While I wish we had the ability to dive into more than these alone, I’m afraid we’d need years to do so.
Throughout the next twelve weeks, we will look at not only the differences in these belief systems, but the commonalities and how both have shaped artistic creators throughout time. ”
A freckled guy to my right scoffed behind his hand, his disheveled curls bouncing.
“Something wrong, Mr. Tucker?” Celine asked.
“Oh.” He sat up straight. “Nothing, I’m—I’m sorry.”
“Well, it can’t be nothing. Your distaste was plain as day. Go on then,” she said. “Share with the class.”
He squirmed in his seat. “It’s just, I thought this would be more about art and less about …”
“About … what? Religion?” Celine crossed her arms.
“Well … yeah. I didn’t sign up for that.”
“Fair.” Celine took a step closer. “But art is feeling, and feeling is derived from experience. Would you not agree, Mr. Tucker, that religion has been a catalyst to divine awakenings in the artistic community throughout history?”
He nodded, swallowing hard.
“Then would you not agree that this study is justified if we are to understand artistic expression on a deeper level? Or were you hoping for a simple class you could breeze through with minimal effort?” She raised an eyebrow.
“If that is the case, the door is right over there, Mr. Tucker. And that goes for anyone else who might have been hoping for an easy ride here.”
The room went quiet, the wheeze of the overhead vent the only sound, but everyone remained seated.
“All right then, now that that is settled,” Celine said, turning back to the board.
“Though belief systems vary, at the base of each, we find a common factor: the presence of dark and light, good and evil. Through this lens, many have asked the age-old question: What is our purpose in the universe? And thus sharing their findings through artistic expression.” She turned to scrawl across the whiteboard again, creating two columns.
“Who can give me some examples of what one might associate with the light, the good?”
The cool autumn air traipsed through the window, tickling my cheeks as answers erupted across the room: peace, love, kindness, empathy.
Celine jotted down each and turned, her attention falling on me. “Fey, what might you describe darkness as?”
I wilted under the attention. “Umm … fear?”
“Good, good,” she said. “What else?”
The beast’s teeth grinned in my thoughts. “Destruction, death.”
She clapped her hands together once, jotted down my answers, and turned back to the class. My body relaxed.
She smiled. “Yes, now we’re cooking, but let’s think bigger. Universally. What darkness have you seen in the world, both past and present?”
More answers rang out: famine, war, pride.
“Chaos,” someone called out.
My ability to focus fizzled out as the class went on, my unanswered questions overshadowing the new ones Celine presented. Who was the man made of mist? And why did he keep saving me? A question smacked me over the head that hadn’t occurred to me before, déjà vu setting in alongside it:
How did he know my name?