“You sound like my mother.”
The mention of her mother lingers between us. I don’t push. Instead, I turn the conversation, steering it toward safer ground.
For a while, we sit like that, talking about inane things that aren’t important. Faculty scandals through the ages. The rumors about the fourth floor. I tell her about a student who tried to summon a familiar and ended up with a squirrel that kept running up his trouser leg. She offers theories about why the dining hall never serves Tater Tots. I remind her that Serpentine Academy has its standards, and Tater Tots is not one of them. It feels normal, almost, if anything here can be called that.
Eventually, the conversation slows, and the fatigue returns to her eyes. She leans back on the bed, propping herself up on her elbows. “I should sleep. I have to meet Ash again tonight.”
The thought of her meeting Ash again, alone, makes me want to break something. Like him. If he thinks I’ll leave her unguarded for him to prey on, he’s not as smart as he thinks he is. But Rose is right, she needs rest.
I don’t want to leave her. Not when she looks like this, so vulnerable, undone, unsure of everything. But I stand, smoothing the lines of my coat. “If you need anything at all.”
“I know. I will.”
On impulse, I reach down and run my index finger along her jaw. She goes still, eyes wide, and I let my fingers linger against her cheek.
“You’re not alone, Rose.” I say. “Not anymore.”
She nods, swallowing whatever bratty remark she might have prepared.
I turn to leave, pausing at the door.
“Lucien.”
“Yes, Rose?”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime,” I answer.
The hallway is as empty as before, but I pause outside her door, listening to the slow, steady beat of her heart before I walk away.
Twelve
Ash
She’s late.
I wonder if she’s watching from the edge of the woods or if she’s inside, staring out a window, debating whether it’s worth defying me just to prove a point. I glance at my watch, then at my own footprints behind me, tramping a track through the thin layer of snow that has fallen. I’m about to walk further down the treeline when she calls out.
“You know, you should really wear something that doesn’t glow in the dark.”
I turn. There she is, three feet away, leaning against a tree with her hands in her pockets, hair spilling from under a knit beanie, in a coat three sizes too big for her.
I try for indifference. “Didn’t hear you coming.”
She shrugs. “Guess you’re getting old.”
I step closer. “Or maybe you’re finally learning something.”
She ignores me, and glances around at the silent forest. “So. Training. What’s the plan?”
I gesture at the clearing, the dead leaves and snowy mud under our boots. “You already know the basics. You can move small objects, light a candle, and heal a cut if you concentrate hard enough. But that’s baby magic. What you’re capable of is so more.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard this speech before,” she says. “So what do I do?”
“Close your eyes.”
She rolls them but obeys, tipping her head back and letting her arms hang loose.
