“Not all magic that changes the world does so dramatically,” I continue, letting my gaze drift along the young students’ faces. They don’t yet understand how rare it is for power to be used without selfishness, and that’s the point of this class. “Sometimes, magic changes the world quietly, simply by reducing suffering.”
At my own words, my boots pause on the stone floor. And immediately, I’m thinking of Maeve.
She wants to do the exact same thing: to improve life for nonmagic people, to bring them sustainable energy in a way that doesn’t require arcane blood. She’s not interested in spectacle, but in doing what’sright.
My chest tightens at the thought, and the bond reacts, the thread between us pulling so tight that it causes me to lose my breath. Close behind it comes the sensation of a storm rolling across a summer sky, with static humming beneath my skin and causing the hair on my arms to rise.
Sixty pairs of eyes stare at me. But for a moment, as I blink and fight against the sensation, I can’t remember where I am. I don’t recognize the room around me.
Because all I can see is rainwater on pale cheeks, long purple hair snapping in a violent wind, the hem of a skirt brushing smooth thighs.
My gaze flicks up, to where Maeve always sits during lectures. But she’s not here. Because this isn’t her class.
Right.
“Professor?” comes a small voice from the front row.
It helps to pull me back.
The young witch is looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and concern, and the look is mirrored on the faces of many of her classmates. Her hand is half raised, like she’s not sure if she’s asking a question or not.
“Are you okay?” she continues.
Pull yourself together, I tell myself.
I draw a long breath in through my nose, trying to banish the stormy sensation from that space just beneath my sternum.
“I’m perfectly well,” I say, with a tone perhaps a bit sharper than was warranted.
The witch puts her hand down immediately.
Turning, I stride back to the board, then write the three names of the historical figures we discussed this class period. “By next class,” I say, my voice carrying through the silent lecture hall, “I expect a two-page report on which of these scholars made the most meaningful contribution to ordinary life and why.” I shift back to face the class. “Papers will be due at the beginning of class, not at the end of the period, Mr. Kent.” My gaze flicks to a student three rows back, and his cheeks go red.
“Y-yes, Professor.”
Around him, students attempt to hide their smiles.
Then the academy clock chimes, signaling the end of the period, and my students rush to put their books and quills away. They file out of the classroom in a swirl of cloaks and quiet conversation. Only when the final student has departed do I allow myself to sink onto the edge of my desk and draw a deep breath.
The distance between me and Maeve was intended to weaken our bond. And indeed, it feels frayed, raw. Yet it still remains.
Even after the words she spoke in my office.
I can’t be half loved.
Her voice still echoes in my mind, and it makes me grit my teeth, fangs aching.
How can she believe she’s only half loved by me? Have I failed to make her understand how deeply and irrevocably she has changed me?
I’m done.
The memory of her words answers my question for me, confirming my failure.
A heavy sigh lifts my chest as I push off the desk and go to the lectern to gather up my notes. But with each movement, the tightness in my chest lingers. And before I leave the lecture hall, I glance once more to the spot where Maeve always sits.
But she’s not there.
THE STAFF MEETING BEGINS AS it always does, with updates on students and faculty, calendar dates to be aware of, and housekeeping items that bore me into staring out the frosty window at the gray sky in the distance.
