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I blink. I don’t know what I was expecting, but that never would have crossed my mind.
Scrying is a relatively simple practice, more akin to one of my spell jars, than casting complex runes. It involves holding a pendulum made of either crystal or conductive metal over a map, or the palm of your hand, and following the direction of the pendulum’s swing. Generally, it isn’t all that reliable and isn’t used to find items further than a mile or two away. If Roman can find things thousands of miles away, he’s not “good,” at scrying, he’s a savant.
“So, you do use magic?” I press, confused.
He shakes his head. “Not anymore.”
“But your job? And your research…I’m assuming that’s affected too?”
He barks a harsh laugh and sinks onto his bed next to me, pushing a hand through his dark hair. For a moment, all I can see is how we’d sit like this, in secret in cemeteries, surrounded by the scent of fall leaves and clove cigarettes.
With a jolt, I realize I can’t smell the cloves. I bite my lip, wanting to ask about it, but not wanting to distract him if he’s going to tell me something real.
“My sister disappeared two weeks after I graduated,” he says, turning to stare at the wall. As if, looking at me at the same time as speaking is impossible. “I pledged the same night of graduation. You know how that works.”
I tip my head—yes, of course I know. A tiny hint of bitterness climbs up my throat at the thought that perhaps I won’t have the same experience, but I swallow it back down. This isn’t about me. “Then what?”
He grins, almost embarrassed, looking down. “We threw lots of parties mainly.” He jerks his head toward the door to indicate his friends in the kitchen. “They’re all still in school with you, so it was like—”
“Having one friend who’s twenty-one and can buy the beer?” I supply.
“Something like that. After that summer I was going to go traveling and find rare manuscripts for the Order, but then Marcia didn’t come home.”
I try to remember Marcia. She was younger than us by several years and never had much to do with me, but I was still sad when I heard she disappeared—more so when they found her body. Even my parents, who have nothing nice to say about the Montagues, were shaken by the death of a teenager.
“So you stayed because of your sister?” I hedge.
“And because I don’t want to do the job anymore,” he confirms.
He says it flatly, without any of his usual embellishment. I narrow my eyes. “I don’t understand.”
He runs a hand over the back of his head, seeming frustrated—though I can’t tell if it’s with me, or himself, or this conversation in general. Maybe a combination of all three, or perhaps simply with life overall. “Marcia was missing for three weeks before we found her body. Three weeks where I couldn’t find her, but I could find a previously undiscovered original manuscript forDraculatwo continents away. Do you know how fucking infuriating that is?” His voice rises, not quite yelling, but enough that I lean back. His black eyes track my movement, and he stops. “Sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize,” I say quickly.
Shit.
I lean forward, reaching for him, but he pulls away. “Why did you come here, good girl?”
My stomach clenches. This time when he calls me “good girl,” it doesn’t feel like teasing or even fun. It feels like distance. Like a reminder of the ways in which he thinks we’re different. I am the good girl, and Roman Montague will never see me as a whole person with flaws or himself as anything other than a villain.
I swallow thickly. “My parents want to move up my wedding.”
Rage flashes in front of his eyes. “And you’re just okay with that?”
Seated, we’re still not eye-level, but I don’t have to crane my neck to look up at him as I draw myself up. “You asked me why I was here. What part of my being here makes you think I would be okay with that”
The corner of his mouth tips up. “Is this your rebellion, good girl?”
I bite my lip. I don’t know how to answer him. Maybe? Or maybe I’m just finally doing something I want, just because I want it. Maybe I’m struggling to say what I want out loud, to put my thoughts into words, so instead I have to show everyone who I am.
“Something like that,” I say, knowing it’s nowhere near enough. Nowhere near the right words for the magnitude of the emotions swirling just on the edge of my mind.
My heart beats in my ears as Roman’s black eyes track over me. I hope he understands what I’m saying—or rather, what I’m not saying. What I can’t quite admit even to myself.
“We’ll figure it out tomorrow, good girl,” he says finally, like the subject is closed.
“Yeah, if you don’t mind us—”
