My fingers drift to my throat, where Severin’s lips were, and I feel my pulse.
I’m not afraid of you, I told him last night.
And in that context, it was true. I might still be getting to know him, but I trust him in a way that feels instinctual, andmy magic draws me to him time and time again, reaching for him in the way that plants reach for sunlight.
But now, I realize that Iamafraid of him. I’m afraid of falling for him—falling in love with him. And I’m afraid of what that might mean.
Isis lets out a small hiss. “You are afraid of wanting something you cannot easily walk away from. Something you cannot control.”
Walking away has always been my strength; until now, I’ve been able to walk away from anyone I’ve ever met. But when I picture walking away from Severin, or him walking away from me, my magic flares, like a storm is building just beneath my skin, wanting to lash out violently.
Again, I meet my stormy eyes in the mirror. And this time, something like determination stares back. “I don’t want to walk away,” I say.
“Then don’t. But do walk carefully, Maeve.”
Carefully. Not fearfully.
There’s a difference.
I take a breath, then let it out in a big sigh, trying to drain out all my spinning thoughts and emotions.
“Thank you,” I tell Isis, holding out a hand. She presses her head into my palm and lets me trail my fingers over her glossy black scales. “You always know what to do.”
Her laugh comes out in a hiss. “So do you. Sometimes you just need help getting there.”
This makes me smile. “Right now, I know that what I need is a bath.” I stand from my vanity, then look back at her. “You want to come?”
She considers it for a moment, then nods. “I could use the steam.”
I hold my hand out, and she slithers into my palm, then up my arm, where she wraps around my neck. As I gather my things for the bathhouse, a realization settles inside me: This thing I have with Severin isn’t a passing curiosity or fascination; it’s real, and it feels like the beginning of something, a path I’ve never walked before. And though I don’t know what’s waiting for me at the end, I’m going to follow it anyway.
Chapter 24
Severin
IT’S BEEN LESS THAN TWENTY-FOUR hours since I last saw Maeve, but I already miss her. The smell of her skin, the feel of her hair running through my fingers, the deep purple of her stormy eyes—these details are etched into my mind now, and I’m certain even another three centuries will be unable to erase them.
This witch has become a problem. Or maybe I’m the problem.
Regardless, I’ve realized that I’m in deeper than I thought. And I’m just hoping none of the other professors have mind-reading capabilities, because I’m currently surrounded by a table of them.
Headmistress Moonhart sits at the head of the table, a cup of tea in front of her, glasses perched low on her nose as she reads from a parchment with our meeting notes on it.
Professor Stone returns from the refreshment table with a plate of banana muffins and sits down with a sigh. “I’ve determined that fourth-years,” he says, voice somewhat weary even though it’s only Monday morning, “are more exhausting than first-years.”
Seated across from him, Professor Azula says, “That is because fourth-years think they’re competent.”
“Theyarecompetent,” Professor Stone says around a bite of his muffin.
“And that’s precisely the problem. They think they don’t need us anymore.” She arches one of her sharp red eyebrows, her lips pressing into a firm line.
Professor Fleur, who’s seated next to Moonhart, says softly, “At least none of them set anything on fire last week.” She gets a brief haunted look in her green eyes, and I wonder what she’s recalling.
Headmistress Moonhart clears her throat and sets the parchment she was reading from onto the table. The professors go quiet, straightening up a bit as her pale blue eyes lift to address us.
“Let’s begin with reviewing the midterm budget,” she says. “The repair costs for the elemental practice room exceeded projections. We may need to draw from the academy’s reserve.”
“Again?” Professor Fleur asks.
