Page 98 of The Mortal Trials

20

It’s the morning of the third trial, and August promised to hurry back when he left to take my spear to Koda’s house. With it, Koda will have a way to defend himself until we reach him.

I told August I would be at my oikos… I need to see my sister.

When I look at her face on the mural today, something is different. Something has shifted within me. What once felt like a sharpened blade cutting into my heart, is now a gift.

I touch my feathers, wishing I had a third. I’m fighting for her, too.

My fingers drift over her hair, her unscarred cheek and chin. The plaster is cool and brittle to the touch.

I needed to be reminded.

Needed to remember the freckles that flowed from the bridge of her nose onto her cheeks – like mine, but more bountiful. Our lips have the same bow, but hers were paler, while mine are a deeper shade of pink. Her jaw was a little squarer, and her brows carried a thinner arch. Our hair is sable, but she cut hers short while I kept mine long.

I miss you.

I’ve avoided mirrors since the day she died because whenever I looked in them, all I could see was her. And all I could feel was the loss of her and all the dull, empty places she once vibrantly filled.

Each time I looked at my reflection, I ignored how different we were. I forgot how those differences mattered in ways glass and frescos can’t reflect.

A memory surfaced this morning. And though I remembered what we were talking about and the clear sound of her voice and how properly she pronounced everything I didn’t, I couldn’t picture how she sat in her bright yellow chair at our table that day. Did she tuck one leg beneath the other? Cross them? Hug a knee to her chest?

I can’t remember her posture.

The advice she’d given me that day was something she’d repeated many times over. Probably because I’m stubborn and take a long time to learn simple lessons. And possibly because she saw and realized how different we were.

I was impulsive. My temper often flared. During those moments, I’d say things I didn’t mean or something I shouldn’t have and then feel horrible about it after I calmed down.

The morning that kept replaying in my head was one of those mornings. I was slumped at the table, feeling awful because Abuela had mentioned our mother and I snapped at her. I always forgot that the woman who abandoned us was also her daughter, and that good mothers never stop loving their children. Abuela was one of them, even if our mother wasn’t.

My words were cruel and callous.

Carina brought two cups over to the table. Each held a slice of lemon and a drizzle of honey. She went back for the kettle when it whistled and sat down with me.

I waited for her to tell me what I already knew. I shouldn’t have talked to our grandmother like that. It wasn’t her fault our mother left. Abuela had taken care of us when she didn’t have to, simply because she loved us. It was okay if she still loved her.

Just like it was okay if we hated our mother, and somehow still loved her at the same time. And it was okay that our feelings about her were confusing.

Carina poured hot water into my cup, then hers. She swirled her spoon around the steaming liquid to mix everything as best she could. Then she said, “I work hard to polish the parts she broke in me – to make sure I’m nothing like her.”

I pushed my lemon in circles, knowing what she was saying. I’m too much like her.

“Always, always count to three and think of what you’re about to say before you say it, Callalie. Count before you do something, so you have time to consider the consequences.”

My fatal flaw is impatience. I can never seem to wait that long.

My sister, though. She thought everything through.

I thought it was innate until that day. Until I saw how hard she tried to rein in her emotions and become something better. I watched her polish that still-rough spot within herself.

The way Elias thinks reminds me of her. Not in its creative gruesomeness, but the way she would find a dozen ways to solve whatever she faced, starting with what she thought would work best and working through the list until the solution ended the matter.

I stare at my sister’s likeness and smile at the comparison of the two of us to lionesses. Carina had the heart of one. A huntress who considered the most efficient way to surprise her prey before pouncing. And if I’m going to make it to the games, I need to start thinking like her.

I push my hair back, holding it at bay. Oh, Carina. Mi carnalita.

She knew what would happen when she wrote the script she read and telecast to the world that day. And when she enlisted others like Koda for help, she’d considered the repercussions. She knew anyone who helped her might be punished along with her. I can picture her listing her worries to Koda and waiting for him to decide if helping her, and fighting for me, was worth it.