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“You come and talk to me in the afternoon,” the teacher says, frowning. “We’ll figure this out, whatever is bothering you.”
Ashton has bowed his head again, scribbling away in his notebook, black hair hiding his face, broad shoulders slightly hunched. No reply seems to be forthcoming.
Two students on the other side of me are whispering about drugs and how Ashton must be falling down a rabbit hole because his brother is in the hospital, and who knows if the brother is also into drugs?
Good God. The gossip mill is running at full speed.
The teacher approaches my desk so I turn forward and sit up straight, waiting for his reprimand, but his gaze goes from me to Ashton and back, as if he’s calculating the distance between us in his head—and not only the physical one.
“Miss Apollinari,” he says after a long moment, “you will have to pass your notes to Ashton since he has fallen behind.”
I open my mouth to tell him that I don’t take notes and what notes I take are crappy at best, but he still has that pensive look on his face. “Of course.”
“Good. He’s an exceptional student but we all need a helping hand from time to time.”
Is he actually urging me to check on Ash, make sure he’s okay? I wish I could tell him it’s not that simple. Maybe he heard the rumors, too. Maybe he’s afraid that Ashton is depressed and falling into drugs and he hopes I can stop him from destroying himself.
Passing him my scribbled notes on the history of the magical races won’t miraculously free him from Ophelia’s yoke, though.
The rest of the class passes in a blur. I have to physically restrain myself from turning to look at Ashton again, clenching the edge of the desk until I think the shape of it must have been imprinted in my palms forever. The bell ringing is my salvation, a breath of air after spending way too long underwater.
Everyone is on their feet, notebooks and books thrown into backpacks, everyone talking at once, making plans while the teacher tries in vain to speak over them and tell them about homework.
I take my time getting up, carefully placing my notebook and pen inside my bag, turning to glance at Ashton who has already packed up everything, his gray gaze on the door.
I follow his line of sight—and there she is, my dark mirroring, my grinning reflection.
“Come, Ashton. Don’t leave a girl waiting.” She crooks her finger at him, all cutesy and flirty, all wrong and twisted.
And he goes, his gaze fixed on her, his steps measured, letting her take his hand and lead him out.
Swallowing down sourness at the wrongness of this, I head to his desk. Don’t let it get to you, I tell myself. You have a goal, a new goal, and that’s to save those boys from her, to stop whatever she’s planning. You can do this.
However improbable it sounds.
I don’t see it at first. Of course Ashton wouldn’t carve words in his desk, that’s not his style, unlike Emrys’. He’s also not one for drawing and doodling. I look under his desk and there’s a small rolled-up piece of paper stuck there, in a crack in the plywood.
My breath catching in my chest, I pull it free and unroll it.
‘These violent delights have violent ends.’ Only this one line. A quote. Not my name, but a line he quoted to me when he was talking of love.
Of loving me. And not deserving it.
I clutch the paper in my hand and with the other draw out the scrunched-up paper I found below Jason’s desk. This can’t be a coincidence. Jason’s must be a message, too. I only have to decipher it.
It doesn’t have to mean anything, I tell myself, trying to calm my racing heart. The mind plays tricks sometimes, gives directions to our hands that bypass conscious thought—but isn’t that even more significant? Ophelia’s enchantment seems to control the conscious part of their brain—a continuous litany of ‘I love Ophelia, she’s the best, she wants the best for me’ but it can’t really make them love her. Love is complex, right? Was Ashton the one who said it? It’s made up of affection and familiarity, lust and excitement. It’s a deeper connection. You can’t force that. You can only convince someone that it’s there.
It’s as if, deep inside, the boys know it’s not real. A small flame, defying the bitter wind. And I’m going to fan it in all and every way I can.
I turn to go and stop in my tracks, cold all over. Wait… What if this is part of Ophelia’s plan? Make me believe the boys still care about me? Can this plot get any more twisted? I feel like I’m losing my mind.
No, I tell myself. That would be too convoluted. And to what end? What use would it be if I believed it?
Could she rope me in, too, drain me? I’m not an elemental. But most witches have a dominant element, right? And I’m not the Queen so I must have one, too. I wonder what it is, and if Ophelia wants it for herself.
Can I trust these little messages? Can I let myself believe that it’s a sign of resistance, not a part of her master plan to take over the world?
Taking a deep breath, I tell myself that I have no choice but to believe that the boys are fighting back. When you’re falling into the void, you’d grab any handhold you might find, even if there’s a chance it might break and let you fall all the way to the bottom.
