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“Yeah. But she thinks she is so much better than me. She often denies it, but there is something in our DNA, you know? Our eyes are the same. We have the same hands. You can’t deny such similarities. Though you and Ophelia also look similar even though you’re not related, so…”
“That’s right.” I frown. “We look very similar. And share the same magic. How strange for two strangers.”
“Isn’t it just?”
Small pieces of a puzzle seem to be clicking into place. The mystery of my mother. The forbidding of magic. The lack of information. The similarity to Ophelia. The magic.
When two things look similar, then it’s possible they are related in some way.
I have to speak with Ophelia. What if she is my cousin after all?
Finding Ophelia is not that hard. Zoey’s gang is—unsurprisingly—mostly comprised of cheerleaders like her, and they are training for the match that’s coming up in a few days. The loud music spills out of the stadium when I open the door and enter, passing under the bleachers to reach the field.
Pompoms, short white skirts, swinging ponytails, check. And a dark-haired girl who looks a lot like me sitting on the bleachers nearby, holding a book in her hand. She’s reading? That’s another shocker. Unlike me, Ophelia never cared much for books, or so she’d always said. Was a single word coming out of her mouth true? Did she ever feel any affection for me?
I climb up the steps and sit beside her. “Hi, cousin.”
She glances up and frowns, her mouth twisting in contempt. “Don’t call me that.”
“Lia, then. As I’ve always called you.”
A sneer pulls at her lips. “What do you want? Go away. I’m busy.”
“Busy watching your friends dance around like demented squirrels while wearing as few clothes as possible?”
She sighs. “Such a prude. You can’t take the Church out of the girl, can you?”
“Oh, I don’t mind their clothes. It’s their personalities that I mind. Found your soulmates, have you? The girls who bullied you now resonate with you? Make you feel right at home?”
Her smile is tight-lipped. “I told you, this isn’t the place for you.” Her magic pulses—like a jellyfish, I think, a jellyfish with sticky tentacles brushing against me, trying to latch on with tiny hooks. “Leave the Academy. Leave the boys to me. I’ll take good care of them.”
“Siphon their magic, you mean? And then what, spread your net and capture more magical creatures, suck them all dry? Become powerful enough to control the elements themselves? Or are you mainly interested in making puppets out of the major players in politics?”
Her eyes widen. She looks away to hide it. “You always were difficult. My aunt and uncle had their hands full with you. A stupid little orphan, taking advantage of their kindness. They must be worried sick. Did you even tell them you were leaving or did you sneak out? You should go back.” Her magic seems to heat up, the net stinging a little, wrapping around me but never quite closing. “Back to your books and your quiet. That was your place. You’re not prepared for the real world.”
“And yet I feel perfectly at home here at the Academy.” I wait until her gaze returns to me. “I’m not leaving, Ophelia, so get that into that thick head of yours: you can’t drive me away and I will find out what your plans are. Not so hard to guess at, are they? The Golden Moon. Hoping to turn the country into a queendom? Or maybe the whole world? Have slaves cater to your every whim, is that what gets you hot?”
“Maddie. I never.” She points at me, brow furrowing. “Why isn’t this affecting you?”
“This? Oh, you mean your enchantment? Who says it ever did?” I sneer a little, mimicking her usual expression.
She’s right, though. What changed? The only thing I can think of is making out with Ashton and Sindri in that storeroom.
“You know about the enchantment?” It’s the first time since Ophelia arrived at the Academy that I see her off balance, caught off guard.
“I sense it,” I say.
“You can’t possibly. You’re not a witch. You’re human.”
“Am I?” I lean closer. “I bet you a hundred bucks—that I don’t have, but that’s beside the point—that my mom, myrealmom, is an Apollinari. Am I wrong? We’re related through blood.”
“Of course we’re not related! Are you out of your mind? I’m not related to you!”
Her shock and outrage seem genuine. I gaze at her, trying to gauge if there is any crack in her absolute conviction but see none.
“Ophelia—” I start.
“They found you on the doorstep. Took you in. You’re an ungrateful brat after all. And to think I did my best to keep you entertained.”
