Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Lucien
We walk in silence, passing through a corridor where magical icicles hang from the ceiling, never melting, casting rainbow reflections across the walls. Rose reaches up to touch one, her fingertip coming away with a small spark of magic.
“The decorations are beautiful,” she says. “Makes it almost possible to forget that the headmistress is a complete psychopath, and that all the other students hate me.”
“The term is nearly over,” I remind her.
“Except I’m not leaving. No family to go home to, remember?” She says it casually, but I hear the undercurrent of loneliness.
“Nor am I,” I say. “Perhaps we can endure the holiday tedium together.”
She glances at me. “You’re staying?”
“Where would I go?” I shrug. “Besides, if you’re staying, someone needs to be here to make sure you don’t burn the place down. Accidentally.”
“Your dedication to duty knows no bounds.”
“Indeed. I’m practically a saint.”
That elicits a laugh from her. We turn down another hallway, this one lined with paintings of previous headmistresses, their stern faces at odds with the festive garlands draped beneath their frames.
It’s incongruous to see portraits of Helena and Victoria Wickersly hanging there along with the others.
“Did you celebrate Yule? Back when you were...” She trails off.
“Human? Yes, though it was different then.” I pause before a window overlooking the academy grounds, now blanketed in snow.
“How so?”
“It felt more reverent, and less frivolous, I suppose.”
“What was it like?” She leans against the windowsill.
I find myself transported back through centuries, to memories I rarely allow myself to indulge in.
“We celebrated the longest night. Fires were lit to call back the sun. There were feasts, of course. Tables laden with game and winter fruits, wines mulled with spices.” I can almost smell it, the cinnamon and clove, roasted venison, the sharpness of wine warmed by the fire.
“My father insisted on the old ways. The house would be decked with evergreens and holly to ward off spirits. Candles in every window to guide wayward travelers.”
“Sounds magical,” she says softly.
“It was, in its way.” I look away from the window, back to her. “There were dances, too. Elaborate affairs that lasted until dawn. The women in silk gowns, the men competing for attention like preening peacocks.”
“Did you dance?” She’s smiling now, perhaps imagining me in the finery of a bygone era.
“Reluctantly.” I allow myself a small smile in return. “I preferred to watch from the walls, even then.”
“I bet you were good at it, though. You seem like someone who’d be annoyingly perfect at everything.”
“I was adequate.”
“Translation, you were the best dancer there and everyone knew it.”
I don’t confirm or deny, but my silence seems to amuse her.
“Come,” I say, noticing how she’s still shivering. “There’s a study down this way with a fireplace. Better than standing in drafty corridors.”
She follows without argument, which tells me how truly cold she must be. The study is tucked away on the second floor, a small room lined with bookshelves and furnished with overstuffed chairs that have seen better centuries. A fire already burns in the grate, the room deserted save for us.
Rose makes directly for the fire, holding her hands out toward the flames. “God, that’s better. I swear my bones are still frozen from training with Ash last night.”
I take the chair opposite hers, watching the firelight play across her features. “What does he have you doing?”
“Last night was elemental work. Making fire, putting it out. Over and over and over.” She flexes her fingers. “My hands still smell like smoke.”
“Fire is volatile. Difficult to control.”
“Tell me about it.” She settles deeper into the chair. “He’s ruthless. Won’t let me stop until I get it right, no matter how long it takes.”
“And yet you continue to meet him.”
She glances at me, something defensive in her gaze. “Because it’s working. I’m stronger now. I can protect myself better.”
“I never suggested otherwise.”
She relaxes slightly. “Sorry. I’m just on edge. With everything that’s happened.”
“Understandable.”
We fall into comfortable silence, the crackling of the fire the only sound. Outside the window, snow begins to fall, fat flakes drifting past the glass.
“My mom loved Christmas,” Rose says suddenly, still looking at the fire. “Even when we had nothing, she’d find ways to make it special.”
I remain silent, sensing she needs to speak more than she needs a response.
“There was this one year we were staying in this absolute dump of a motel somewhere. But on Christmas Eve, I woke up, and she’d covered the windows and walls with paper snowflakes.
Must have stayed up all night cutting them out.
” Her voice softens with the memory. “She’d found a tiny pine tree, just a sapling she dug up, and put it in a coffee can.
Decorated it with paper rings and one of her necklaces wrapped around for garland. ”
The way Rose recalls this memory is so clear I can almost see it, and I feel admiration and respect for Rose’s mother, Sarah. A sad motel room transformed by a mother’s determination to create magic for her child at a time of year when others were surrounded by festivities and indulgences.
“We sat on the bed eating gas station donuts and drinking hot chocolates, pretending it was snowing.” Rose blinks rapidly, firelight catching on dampness in her eyes.
“I didn’t care that we didn’t have our own place.
It felt like home because she always made it home.
No matter where we were. She was my home. ”
“You must miss her.”
“Every day.” She looks at me then, her expression is unguarded and vulnerable. “This is my first Christmas without her. I didn’t think it would hit me this hard.”
I wish I had platitudes to offer, words to ease her pain. But I’ve lived too long to believe in the comfort of empty phrases. Instead, I simply say, “Tell me more about her.”
And she does. Stories pour from her about driving in the summer, singing songs with the windows down, impromptu dance parties in shop aisles, her mother’s unfailing ability to find beauty in squalor. With each memory, Rose grows more animated, grief turning into something more precious.
I listen. This is the gift I can give her, my complete attention, my willingness to bear witness to her loss without trying to diminish it.
Eventually, her stories taper off, and she looks almost embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”
“No apology necessary.”
“It’s just that everyone else will be going home soon, to their perfect families and their perfect holidays, and I’ll be here. Alone.”
“Not alone. I’ll be here. Soren as well. Even your ghost, intermittently.”
She chuckles. “A vampire, an incubus, and a ghost. What a holiday card that would make. Could be worse,” she concedes. “At least the company’s good-looking.”
I arch an eyebrow at her, and she laughs.
“What? You know you’re hot. All of you. It’s like a prerequisite for being supernatural, right?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” She stretches in the chair, the moment of vulnerability passed. “So what do vampires do for Yule, anyway? Besides brooding attractively by fireplaces?”
“I don’t brood. I contemplate.”
“Sure.”
I find myself smiling despite my best efforts not to. This is what Rose Smith does to me. She breaks through centuries of carefully cultivated reserve with her humor and her fragile humanity.
“In truth, I haven’t properly celebrated in a very long time,” I admit. “The occasion loses its luster after a few hundred years.”
“Well, that’s depressing.”
“Merely practical.”
She studies me, head tilted slightly. “Maybe this year could be different.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know. We could do something. Nothing fancy. Just acknowledge it. Together. All of us.”
My reaction to her question creates a surge of something unfamiliar spreading through my chest. “Perhaps,” I say, noncommittal.
But she sees through it, as she always does. “That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a yes, either.”
“It’s a maybe, which from you is practically enthusiastic agreement.” She grins, victorious.
I don’t contradict her. The truth is, the thought of spending Yule with Rose is far more appealing than it should be. She makes me forget myself, forget the careful distance I’ve maintained from humans for centuries. Makes me want things I have no right to want. Things that are not for me.
And yet, watching her in the firelight, I cannot bring myself to regret it.
“It’s getting late,” I say eventually, noting how the sky outside has darkened completely. “You should rest. I’m sure Ash will put you through your paces tonight.”
She sighs, but nods. “Yeah, I know.”
We rise together.
At the door, she pauses, looking back at me with an expression I can’t quite decipher. “Thanks, Lucien. For listening.”
“Of course.”
She hesitates a moment longer, then steps forward and hugs me. “Goodnight.”
She disappears down the corridor before I can respond, leaving me standing in the doorway.
“Goodnight, Rose,” I say to the empty hallway, knowing I’m in far deeper than I ever intended to be.