But the look she gives me is so sharp that I know I’d just cut myself on her, would just be setting myself up to bleed.
So instead, I bite back my pain and give her one firm nod. “Yeah. We’re done.”
Her eyes flash.
That was a bad choice of words—and not at all what I meant.
“Fine.” She takes a few steps down the path toward me, thrusts the shovel into my hand, and turns on her heel. As she whirls to walk away, her smell washes over me, and itreminds me of the morning I woke up beside her, the way the morning light touched her freckled face, the scent that clung to my pillow even days after she’d gone.
But then she’s walking away, boots clipping out an angry rhythm on the stone walkway.
And before I can fix this, can figure out what words will mend the pain I’ve caused her, she pulls open the door to the academy and vanishes into its darkness, leaving me standing by myself in the snow.
Alone. Like I’ve been for so many years. Except now, it doesn’t feel safe or comfortable.
It feels lonely. And it feels cold.
A STONE HAS SAT HEAVILY in my stomach all day, ever since this morning. No matter how busy I keep myself—setting up cold frames in my small back garden, reshoveling paths that don’t need to be shoveled, baking a fresh loaf of bread—I can’t seem to get Lyra’s angry eyes out of my mind.
I’m standing in my sitting room, staring out the window at the moonflowers clinging to the shadows along the edge of the forest line, when there’s a sharp rap against my door.
Immediately, my heart soars, hoping foolishly that it might be Lyra.
But my head knows better. And when I open the door thirty seconds later, it’s not a freckled redhead who’s standing there. It’s the mail carrier.
“Letter for you, Mr. Axton,” he says. He pulls a crisp parchment from his shoulder bag and offers it to me.Without taking it, I know where it’s from. The envelope looks familiar now. The mail carrier narrows his eyes in confusion, holding the letter out a bit farther. “Sir?”
I grumble something incoherent and take the letter from his outstretched hand. “Thank you.”
He tips his soft cap to me, then goes on his way. Slowly, I close the door behind him, then stare down at the envelope in my hand.
It’s from the Columbine Conservatory.
And I’m not sure what I hope for it to say.
Do I want them to offer me the job? If they do, what will I decide? Will I stay here, hoping I can cling to the peace I’ve carved out for myself? Or is peace even possible now that my eyes always look for Lyra, now that every flash of red in my periphery has my heart squeezing and yearning?
Or will I leave?
I clench my teeth, muscles along my jaw feathering. Either way, regardless of what the letter says, I have to open it and find out.
But first, tea.
I pour myself a cup, trying not to pay attention to the ache in my heart when my gaze lands on the hand-painted cup that Lyra drank from when she was here. I push away the image of her sipping the frothy dandelion latte, then smiling when she realized it didn’t actually taste like dirt, as I’m sure she feared.
Shaking my head, I take my tea to the kitchen table, but even then, all I see is Lyra lying back on it, knees spread for me. I promptly snatch the letter off the table and go sit in my armchair instead.
Already, Lyra is everywhere. How is it that she permeated my life so quickly? Like a rapidly spreading plant, she twined her vines and petals all around me, and I feel trapped now—trapped in thoughts of her, in my desire for her.
Maybe I should leave either way... Maybe it’d be better for both of us that way.
I sit in my armchair and put my tea on the table beside me. Then I hold the letter in both hands and stare down at it like I might be able to ascertain what it says without having to open it.
The parchment is thick, and whatever is inside feels dense.
If it’s a rejection letter, why waste so much paper on me?
I call to mind what Lysandra said when she came to visit me:They are interested, I can assure you of that.The conservatory reached out to her, was curious enough about me to actually contact her as my reference.
