Back in the kitchen, I pick up the glass and force myself to take a drink, barely resisting the urge to gag.
Outside, thunder rumbles again, so powerful that I feel it vibrate beneath my boots. The storm is directly overhead. My fingertips tighten around the cool glass as a flash of lightning slips through my drawn drapes, pulling my attention to the window.
My heart stutters.
For a single moment, I feel her clearly again: head tipped back, frigid rainwater coursing down her face, the storm above manifesting the chaos she feels inside.
Get inside, I think, gritting my teeth. She’s going to catch her death out there.
And it’ll be my fault. All of this is my fault.
The sensation of feeling her vanishes a second later, leaving me breathing hard in my empty kitchen, fingers still wrapped around the glass of disgusting donated blood.
Distance is supposed to weaken the circuit—or I believed it would. But it seems to be doing the opposite. If anything, the thread between us is pulling tighter than ever, often leaving me out of breath. It’s as if my denial of it is forcing it to seek out other pathways, like water cutting through stone.
I go back to the hearth and toss another log onto the crackling fire, feeling the burst of heat from the flames kiss my face. But I remain cold, and I know it’s because Maeve is cold. I know it in the same way that I know when dawn is approaching without having to look at the horizon. It’s the connection between us, tying us to each other.
Tying her tome.
I grit my teeth and drag one hand down my face, feeling the stubble on my chin. I need to bathe and shave and grade those damn essays.
Why does it feel like I’m slowly falling apart?
The thunder rumbles again, though it’s softer this time, and I can’t help but to feel it’s answering my question.
I’m falling apart because I’m meant to be withher. But it’s the one thing I can’t allow. For her freedom, I will continue to resist.
Even as everything in me rages against the separation.
Chapter 47
Maeve
A WEEK LATER, I’M STILL sick. It was reckless of me to stand in the storm, but at the moment, it felt like the only thing keeping me from losing it entirely. Now, as I weave through the crowded corridors, sniffling and feeling like my head is full of cotton, I question my own sanity.
This is what he does to me.
In Severin’s class earlier this week, I was sniffling and sneezing all over the place. No one wanted to sit next to me, which was fine. But Severin kept looking at me, dark eyes narrowed, his concern tugging on the thread every time I sneezed. I could feel his anger with me lingering just under the surface, his frustration at me having been so foolish as to stand in the pouring rain on a winter night.
Alina, Lyra, and Poppy were pretty upset too. Poppy’s been nursing me back to health all week, bringing me more blankets and endless cups of soup and tea. Lyra’s been mostly keeping her distance, too afraid to get sick. And Alina lectures me every chance she gets about needing to take better care of myself.
I know they all care in their own way. Even Lyra.
Isis curls against my skin beneath the chunky scarf I’m wearing. She usually isn’t very active during the winter—cold-blooded and all—but I think she knows I could use her company. Since Severin started pulling away, everything has felt like it’s slipping slowly out of my fingers.
And I hope that doesn’t extend to the fellowship.
I’ve gotten stronger—I know I have. My energy sphere holds longer, and it feels likepartof me now rather than an extension of my magic. But I also know that much of my progress happened after Severin stepped into my life, after he started training me up on the spire, with his hands at my waist and his voice in my ear. After the connection between us formed and changed everything.
Even now, as I walk toward Professor Azula’s office for our regular fellowship check-in, I feel the thread just beneath my ribs, trying to tug me toward Severin. But like I’ve been doing all week, I ignore it, pushing it down.
Despite that, though, the pressure of it hasn’t gone away.
I reach Professor Azula’s office door and knock once.
“Come in,” she calls.
I step into the office. The space is warm—warmer than the other rooms in the castle—and flickers with both firelight and candlelight. Her desk is orderly, every piece of parchment aligned corner to corner, her quill resting neatly next to her capped inkwell.
