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He blinks, surprised. “Sure. Take whatever you want.”
I take him literally and start pulling eggs, cheese, and half the crisper drawer worth of vegetables out and pile them on the granite countertop beside the stove. I’m not incapable of cooking, I just don’t—at least, not lately, but this morning I’m having the worst craving for something aside from flavorless, vanilla protein powder.
Bennet watches as I dig around in the cabinet over the stove for a cutting board and begin chopping an onion to make an omelet. “What’s different this morning?”
I don’t know how to explain to him what’s different without sounding like a fifteen-year-old girl in a teen movie. And moreover, I don’t know what to say, period. I know Etta and I agreed to pretend this had been going on for a long time, and that it was my idea to do so. It’s a good idea, and I stand by it…but at least in Bennet’s case, I’m not sure.
I glance over my shoulder, debating my answer. Bennet’s watching me expectantly.
“Do you want the complex truth or the simpler lie?” I ask.
He cocks his head to the side and actually thinks about it. We are very different people. I wouldn’t have thought about it for a second. I would always want the truth, no matter what it cost me. Bennet would genuinely not want to know something if it’s going to be inconvenient or illegal. He should become a lawyer.
“What’s it about?” he asks.
I reach for a package of mushrooms and savagely rip into the plastic, dumping them out on my cutting board. A few roll across the counter and I don’t bother to collect them. “Etta Capulet.”
“Truth.”
I smile, and tell him the story while I finish making an omelet.
* * *
Later that afternoon, my knee bangs against the edge of my desk, over and over, the noise creating a dull pounding rhythm in the back of my mind. I’m more aware of the sound than the feeling. The relentless, throbbing, sensation of metal on denim covered flesh. Not quite painful, but not comfortable either.
That in and of itself is enough to make me vaguely aware that I’m dissociating. That I don’t really know how long I’ve been doing this, or how much time has passed. That I’ve missed whatever the professor said for the last few minutes or perhaps the last hour.
I need a cigarette.
There’s a clock on the wall that lets me know it’s only been about ten minutes, and that’s a relief. Every moment of time I’ve spent in this lecture hall over the last semester has made me question my conviction to avoid practical magic. To return to school rather than following the path laid out for me since birth. Sometimes, in moments of clarity, I know it was a decision made out of panic and grief and not enough sleep. A decision I made when the only sources of inspiration I had were death and dying.
The decision to return to school seemed to make sense, even if a master’s in occult literature isn’t an ideal choice in the eyes of my family. The only son of house Montague can’t become a High Priest, or devote his life to research—especially not now that I’m suddenly an only child, and without an heir our house will die with me.
Yet, Professor Abram, another Order member, was more than supportive of my desire to question our existence. Why are we here and who is pulling our puppet strings? I only wish I wasn’t so bored. After an entire semester of this, I’ve never been more uncertain. Uncertain of the Order and of why we pledge our lives to its service when no one seems particularly happy. Uncertain of what I want to do and what even matters. And uncertain of the path laid out for me, of those I’ve been taught to hate and Ordered to love, and if those mandates can possibly be correct when they feel like life sentences.
Chairs scrape around me and I startle, realizing that everyone is standing up to leave. The class must be over, and I can’t remember a single thing that was discussed. I grind my teeth, hoping I’ll be able to piece it together from the reading.
Professor Abram is standing by the podium gathering worn out parchment into his faded leather bag. I throw my own bag over my shoulder and make my way up to the front of the room.
“Hey!” someone calls behind me. “Roman!”
I stop, and turn automatically at the sound of my name, and freeze as a familiar face smiles at me.
Rosaline Hathaway darts toward me between the crowd flooding out of the lecture hall. Though we’re inside, she’s wearing a wool coat and a thick knitted scarf wrapped halfway around her face. Her short, blunt bangs combined with the scarf, give the illusion that she’s wearing some sort of ski mask. She’s carrying a leather book bag over one shoulder, and I recall vaguely that last I heard she was getting a degree in…something. Education, maybe. I raise a hand in an unenthusiastic greeting. “Hey, Rose. I didn’t know you were in this class.”
She reaches me and stops short, about three feet away. “I’m not. I had a meeting in the same building.”
“Right.” I wrack my brain to remember the name of the guy I thought she’d been dating for the last few years. “How’s Samuel?”
“Sampson,” she corrects.
Whatever.
She wrinkles her nose. “Engaged. I guess he was betrothed at birth and never felt the need to mention it.”
I raise an eyebrow. I almost have the energy to tell her that guy is a dick—I probably would, but her timing is bad. She’s preventing me from catching Professor Abram. “Oh.”
She laughs sardonically. “You always could be counted on to say the least comforting thing, Roman. At least you’re consistent.”
