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2
MIA
Sindri is already sitting in Art class when I enter. My heart beats harder when I take my seat as near to him as possible. I’m three desks away and it feels like miles between us. I’m trying not to take it personally that he chose a seat with no free space nearby, preventing me from getting any closer.
A defensive wall. It’s almost funny. Does the enchantment get the boys to try and keep away from me? Is it a new layer of magic over the rotten core of the first one?
Fine. Then I’ll take new measures, too. Dropping my backpack on my seat, I walk over to him.
The teacher clears his throat. “Miss Apollinari. Please, sit down. Now is not the time to chat.”
“Just one second,” I murmur and stop in front of Sindri. “Sin.”
He doesn’t even lift his eyes to me. “Go away,” he says quietly.
“I want to talk to you.”
“Tough. I don’t want to talk to you, so…” He’s drawing something. Doodling, really, in one corner of the page. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it. His chest is rising and falling unevenly. “Bug off.”
“After class, Sin, please. There is something I need to ask you.”
“I… can’t.” His jaw is clenched tight. His hand skids on the page, then presses the pencil so hard into the page that the tip breaks.
“What are you drawing?”
“Nothing.” Gritted out.
In a tangle of thorns and roses, I recognize a scrawl of words. I turn so I can see it from his perspective and—
—and there is my name, made up of twisted branches. Below he’s written the word Almaya. He always called me that in the days and weeks before Ophelia’s arrival.
“What does almaya mean?” I whisper.
His eyes finally lift to mine, haunted and dark. “It means beloved,” he says, then blinks as if startled by his own reply.
My heart is in my throat. “Sin…”
“Just… go,” he says, his voice ragged.
“Miss Apollinari…” The teacher comes to loom over us. “Take your seat. I won’t repeat myself. Your seat or the Headmaster’s office. Your choice.”
“You’re supposed to draw me, Sin,” I say, the words coming without planning or direction. “Remember? For our joint project.”
“Miss Apollinari,” the teacher says.
With a huff, I return to my seat, my mind spinning. My hands shake as I take out my art pad and my pencils. Turning the pages, I find my drawing of him. Trail my fingers over it, smudging the edges a little. He’s sprawled on the armchair in his room, wearing low-slung pants, his chest bare, his eyes half-closed. I’m no great artist but I remember that day in his room, his sharp, ambivalent words, the way he’d looked at me.
Why did he write my name?
Beloved.
I shiver. What does it mean that he was doing this? Does it mean anything? Was he fighting the enchantment? Is the enchantment weak and he wasn’t focused on anything in particular?
Making out, according to Ashton, weakens the spell, though the spell can tell when one’s attention is on me in particular and yanks on their magic.
I listen with half an ear to the teacher explaining what we’re supposed to do and make a bad job out of it as I can’t make myself concentrate—because a thought has hit me and this class is testing my patience. It seems to never end.
The moment the bell rings, Ophelia appears at the door, as if by magic, to collect her boy toy. Oh, what a surprise. Just like with Emrys, Sindri gets up, gathers his things, grabs his backpack and goes to her without a backward glance.
