Page 42 of Sorrow & Strangers

“Does it make you feel good?” Alice asks.

“No. I feel like shit,” I reply. It’s the truth, but I know she’s not talking about the aftermath. She’s talking about the moments during and after when I feel alive again.

“During?” she asks, obviously having caught on.

I hesitate for a moment but shake my head.

“So it’s just guilt.”

I look away, not wanting to discuss this anymore. I feel lighter today, and I don’t want to disrupt that feeling. It is a fragile state of being for me, and I know it, but I am determined to go back to my classes today. I refuse to sink back into that devastation and lose myself again today. I think I might actually want to live.

Alice holds my gaze and nods as if she can hear my thoughts. “Good. Now, eat some more.”

I sigh and take another bite of the pastry, then grab an apple as I head upstairs to shower and change.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Summer

As I get dressed, I once again notice that my uniform is fitting a little better, and I decide to turn my waistband once, just to make it half an inch shorter. I’m not sure why this gives me confidence, but it does. It empowers me, and I’m going to need all the empowerment I can get as I head into school today. Yesterday was supposed to be my first day back, but then I went and blew up the headmaster’s office. I haven’t been told I’ve been expelled or suspended for the incident, but I don’t imagine he’s very pleased with me.

The tears from breakfast have dried up, and I keep waiting for that smothering grief, but it still eludes me. I think I am feeling stronger, at least at this moment. The guilt is still very front and center, but not in the way it was after that first night. It feels more akin to the level of guilt I experienced last year when I was hiding things from Connor, and is that not what I’m doing? Hiding the fact I’ve fucked Max?

Am I a cheater? Alice says no, but I feel like one. I know that if the roles were reversed, I would be telling her the same thing. You cannot cheat on the dead. I know this, but then why can’t I let myself off the hook?

Alice is sitting on the arm of the chair waiting for me when I get downstairs, and she brightens when she sees me. Maybe she’s noticed that my skirt is a little shorter, or maybe it’s because I’ve chosen to wear new sneakers, not my old ones from last year, or maybe it’s because I’ve put a little effort into my appearance.

“Ready?”

I nod. The nerves curdle my stomach, but I settle a little when Alice slides her hand into mine. I hold tight to her as we leave the house and walk through the campus. I notice the stares, but they’re not lingering like usual, and I notice that after the fourth person looks at me and then whips their head away, Alice is throwing black glares at anyone who focuses on me for too long. She’s like a guard dog, an ankle biter.

I protest when Alice insists on dropping me off at my first class, but she just ignores me, refusing to argue with me. She marches me right to the door and refuses to leave me until I confirm that I am all right. She squeezes my hand and releases me, but I can feel her reluctance as she walks away.

The classroom is bustling with chatter as people settle in. The term started weeks ago, and while I’ve been keeping up with the syllabus from home, I feel so out of place here. Everyone has settled into the routine of the class, and all seem to have chosen seats for the term. I sit in an empty one near the back and pray to the gods that no one approaches me. Fellow students glance at me, and I recognize some of them, but not many.

Idly, I look around the room, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. I wonder again about my schedule and how it came to be. Based on last year’s results, we were each given a list of the classes and levels we could take the following year. Obviously, I wasn’t up to choosing, so someone chose for me. I doubt it was Alice, given the choices that were made. They’re very cohesive and ones that I would definitely enjoy. While Alice knows a lot about me, I can see the way her eyes glaze over when I talk about school and books. These were chosen by someone who knows my mind and understands my academic interests. The headmaster is also unlikely.

Professor Ziven enters the classroom through a door at the front of the room and glides to the whiteboard. Her blond curls bounce slightly with each step, though they remain perfectly uniform, tight ringlets that sit just above her shoulder. She taps one of the runes at the top corner of the board, and the blank space glows before the lesson plan appears. Perfectly drawn images appear at the edges, visual aids to support the text.

“Last week, we focused on the history of hieroglyphics and the part they play in mortal history, specifically relating to a time dubbed ‘the ancient era.’ We also discussed the timeline of that period in terms of the mortals’ beliefs, but also how magic and runic systems predate even their calendars. Today, we are going to delve deeper into the hieroglyphs themselves and the power the language holds. As we discussed, hieroglyphs are best utilized for conjuration. The creation of something from nothing. Unlike alchemy, conjuring with hieroglyphs is more complex, and their unique forms and various uses have fallen out of fashion among those able to use them.”

She reviews the board and then turns around, her gold eyes flitting over the classroom and settling on me. Now that she is looking right at me, I notice the shape of them. They’re slightly elongated, almost catlike, and nearly the same color as her sand-colored skin. She lifts her pointed chin and narrows her eyes a little before looking away.

“Before we begin, copy down all the hieroglyphs from the board, and next to them, describe what you believe their primary, secondary, and tertiary uses are.”

I look at the board, at the complexity of the drawings, and wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. Yes, I have a natural ability to draw normal runes in most languages, but these are . . . works of art, and my ability to draw does not surpass a stick figure.

There must be a reason you were enrolled in this class.

As I start copying them down, I realize that within every hieroglyph lie smaller images, each with its own meaning. I’m just getting into the rhythm of drawing them when Professor Ziven sidles up beside me, looking down at my work.

“I am happy to see you have finally joined the class, Miss Tuatha De Daanan.”

I look up at her, and her feline eyes are fixed on me, the pupils more like slits now. “Apologies for missing the first few weeks,” I say quietly. There is a soft hum of students whispering, but I have a feeling that everyone is listening to our conversation.

“Understandable,” she says, tilting her head a little. “I must admit, I was reluctant to allow you into the class after missing so much.” Her eyebrow quirks and her lips tilt upward. “But I have been assured that your work is exemplary. Don’t make me regret my decision.”

I watch her as her smile deepens, becoming almost menacing, before she leaves me to my work. I stare after her, feeling more than unnerved. The rest of the class is relatively painless, but by the time lunch rolls around, I’m feeling worn out, and I wonder if it would be better to see about transferring out. I really don’t have the bandwidth to deal with more weird shit.