“You look…” His eyes are wide.
“I’m fine,” I insist. Then I wish I hadn’t. Maybe if I tell him I’m in pain, he’ll feel bad for me. Take care of me. Put a cool compress on my head or something. The image is nice—an alternate universe glimpse of the two of us.
But that’s impossible.
“Happy Ash Wednesday,” I add. “Just 40 days to go.”
Stupid joke. Cal’s concern doesn’t fade. He just nods.
“Take it easy, okay?”
“Sure,” I mumble as he retreats. I’m scratching the back of my neck, debating whether I should knock and see if Gwenna’s still getting ready or just awkwardly linger in the hall when the door opens.
It’s her.
A hot, cracking feeling hits me in the chest. And then evaporates, leaving just a cold sweat in its wake.
Fuck. This is going to be hell.
Gwenna frowns, peering at me. She’s dressed for the day: coat, school bag, a thermal coffee mug with WITCH, PLEASE written on it in glitter that I assume she swiped from Morgan.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “What’s on your?—”
“Fine.” I rub my forehead—but not too hard, so as not to mess up the cross. “It’s ashes. Ash Wednesday.”
She nods. “Ah. Right.”
“I…didn’t sleep great,” I say. Not a lie. “Anyway. You ready?”
She nods, but the frown doesn’t go away. We walk in silence to her first class, and I nod wordlessly as she heads in, settling on my usual bench in the hallway to…do nothing, more or less. Keep an eye out for Russians, or whatever, but otherwisenothing besides watch the occasional study group or professor pass through the hallway.
I’m a mess. Honestly, they could send a tiny Soviet ballerina to get her right now and I’d barely be able to fight back. I don’t even have my dagger on me, for starters. And I feel like I’m burning up.
Fifty minutes later, when the class gets out, I’m not doing better.
And Gwenna can tell.
“Hey.” She greets me, verbally, which she doesn’t usually. Frowning again, she bends over and peers into my eyes. “Are you…”
I swallow thickly and swipe a hand through the air. “All good.” I get to my feet, and the firecracker feeling snaps inside my ribcage again. I almost wince, but I catch myself. All that training with the Consistory finally coming in handy: don’t flinch. Don’t react. “So,” I manage. “Art History?”
Gwenna bites her lip like she’s thinking. “I’m going to skip.”
“Huh?”
“I’m going to skip class,” she explains.
“Huh?” I say again. “But you can’t?—”
“I can get the slide notes.” She shrugs. “I don’t think I’m going to die from missing one lecture about metallurgy.” She shifts her bag on her shoulder, looking up and down the hallway. “Why don’t we…”
Next thing I know, we’re sitting in Holy Grounds. Gwenna has her books laid out on the table, a large cup of coffee next to it, but she isn’t touching either.
“Are you sure I can’t get you something?” she says. “A…juice? Banana?”
I shake my head, avoiding her gaze. It gets worse when we make eye contact, I’ve discovered. If she looks into my eyes for more than a half second or so, another surge of pain.
“I’m supposed to be fasting,” I mumble, trying to dab at my temple without looking too obvious. “Until dinner.”
