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I stop short, my brow stitching in confusion.
“Oh, also”—she makes a big show of producing a sheet of paper, as if just remembering it was there—“Reid is resting. He’s doing much better today, but the healers upped their dose of potions to get him back on his feet faster, so he’ll be sleeping more, but he asked me to give you this note.” I reach for the paper, but she doesn’t release it. “Maybe read it in private. It seemed…personal.”
“Okay,” I murmur, not for a second believing this is from Reid. If he’d wanted to talk to me, he could have said something through the bond. And one glimpse inside the note verifies this is definitely not his handwriting.
She squeezes my hand, gives Adrienne a tight smile, then just as quickly as she’d come, turns and disappears through the door.
Valerie,
Be careful where you read this and if you speak any part aloud. Your shadow self could be listening or watching even when you’re unaware of her presence.
You hold more power on this side of the veil due to your physical form. Should you venture too close to the darkness (a spell that requires a great deal of dark power, for example) her chances of overpowering you increase. But that would also be the most opportune time for you to force her back into the shadow realm.
Reid tells me your mother has instructed you to perform a dark spell against Westcott. If you do, there are measures you can take to protect yourself. You can create a ward for a single person, usually bound to an object, like a necklace.
A similar object can be created to help send your shadow self back. I’ve included the spell and ingredients you’ll need below.
Valerie, please be careful. For your sake, your family’s, your friends’, and selfishly, I’m asking you to think of Reid. I fear losing you is something he wouldn’t survive.
Do what you must, but please, be careful.
Quinn
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
I don’t sleepat all. I toss and turn for hours, my mind never slowing.
About Nathan. Westcott. V. Mom. Adrienne. The spell.
It was always going to come to this. I think a part of me knew that. But the finality of allowing myself to accept it sits so heavily in the center of my chest I can barely draw breath.
After another sleepless hour passes, I look past the text I’d sent Adrienne a few hours ago—I’ll do it—and stare at the date at the top of the screen.
November 21.
Then I shove myself out of bed.
I leave on the tank top I’d been sleeping in and add some sweatpants, then I’m heading down the hall barefoot. It’s the middle of the day, so most of the estate is asleep. I nod at the guards and servants I pass as I wind my way through the corridors, trying to muster a better mood for myself. This isn’t how I want to spendtodayof all days. For my sake and his. The problem will still be there come sunset.
A few servants linger in the kitchens, and they shoot me wary glances when I step through the door. After helping them finish their cleanup and explaining my plan, a few of the older women graciously step in. But once they help me find all of the necessary tools and ingredients, I insist on doing it on my own.
The staff scatters off with other duties, and the temperature in the room quickly rises as I preheat the oven.
“It can’t be that different from making a potion,” I assure myself as cloud of flour explodes in my face. I cough and wave a hand, trying to get it away from my eyes.
I examine the recipe on the counter, hands on my hips. It might as well be in a foreign language, but I am determined. Because the world is on fire and people are dying and plans are being made, and yes, it’s all very important, but I refuse—Irefuse—to let that get in the way of doing this.
I’m already sweating, and I haven’t even gotten the damn thing in the oven yet. The servants earlier warned me I’d need to wait a good long while after it came out before adding the frosting. God forbid I fuck this one up and need to start over.
Because I am not walking out of this kitchen with a wonky-ass cake. It’s going to be professional grade. The best damn cake anyone in this estate has ever seen.
* * *
This is probablythe worst damn cake anyone in this estate has ever seen. Four hours later, I make my way through the hall, practically holding my breath as I balance the plate in my hands.
The cake is two tiers, buttercream icing in the middle and in weird attempts at embellishments on the sides. The only food coloring option I had was blue, so I mixed it with the white icing to look like clouds—the sky during the day, something he never gets to see but I know that he wants to.
Well, that was the idea, at least. The top is caved in on one side, and the layers of icing are clearly uneven. There were also only two candles in that whole goddamn kitchen, so there’s a shaky 26 in blue icing and the two candles awkwardly framing it.
