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I hold the cup to my lips and drink.
thirty
thirty-one
Wolfe
I say her name each night at midnight, but she never comes. I can’t take it anymore. I leave the manor and cut through the trees until I’m closer to Main Street and closer to her.
She was vulnerable and honest when she should have been distant and suspicious. She should have protected herself. But she opened herself up like one of my grimoires, and I read every page, every sentence, until she became my favorite book.
I don’t want to be angry, but I am. I was supposed to hate her, to feel nothing but disgust. I fell for her despite myself, and now she’s all I can think of. If either of us is weak, it’s me. Not her.
And it’s infuriating.
Mortana takes the long way home from the perfumery. She likes to hear the roar of the ocean and feel the wind on her face. And today, when she walks along the eastern shore, she’ll see me.
I shouldn’t be here.
I should let her go and move on, like my dad says. Let Mortanamarry the governor’s son so we can finally have our meeting with the council and figure out a path forward that will save our island and calm the sea.
That’s the right thing.
But how can it be right when she’s not with me?
I’ve never put much stake in happiness. Happiness is erratic and fleeting, hardly a worthwhile thing to spend a life chasing. Living isn’t about happiness, and it never has been.
Living is about necessity. But she became necessary to me, like air and magic and blood: absolutely vital.
The Witchery is cold, inviting in winter with choppy water and dark clouds. I cross my arms and watch my breath in the air in front of me. It starts to rain.
At first it isn’t much, light enough to be mistaken for mist off the Passage. Then the sky opens up, and I’m drenched in seconds.
At least I have the beach to myself.
I should leave. She doesn’t want to see me, and I should respect that.
But god, I have to see her.
And like an answered prayer, there she is, walking along the shore. She’s looking up at the sky, holding her hands open to touch the rain.
She smiles to herself and laughs out loud, not at all bothered to be out in a downpour. She looks… content.
I want to give her the space she asked for. I tell myself I’ll leave before she sees me, but my feet stay planted on the ground, immovable.
She looks perfect in the rain, her hair soaked, water dripping from the ends.
She looks perfect.
I shove my own hair away from my eyes, needing to see her.
She looks up, directly at me. I think my heart stops.
Her steps slow and she tucks her hair behind her ear.
But something isn’t right. Her eyes don’t spark the way they normally do when she looks at me. I know, because every time it happens I want to sell my soul just to make sure it happens again.
“Quite the weather to get caught in,” she says. “Do you know how to find your way back to the ferry?”
