At the bottom of the letter, there’s a little folded-up piece of paper tied with twine and affixed to the parchment so it won’t fall off.
“Will you snip this for me?” I ask Juniper.
She uses her teeth to cut clean through the twine, and the little paper bundle comes free. I set the letter down for Juniper to read and carefully unfold the paper. Sure enough, one precious moonflower seed waits for me inside. It’s about the size of my pinky nail, and I clutch it in my hand like it’s the most valuable thing in the world.
“Lyra,” Juniper whispers, looking up from the letter to meet my eyes. “Do you feel the same? About Cairn?”
My lips are starting to tremble, and I know if I speak, I’ll just start blubbering again, washing Juniper away with my tears. So instead, I nod. I nod so hard I make myself dizzy.
I’m absolutely, without a shred of a doubt, falling in love with Cairn Axton.
And there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
Chapter 49
Lyra
OUR SPRING SEMESTER STARTS TOMORROW, and the campus is already thrumming with activity. I have to dodge students and spirit companions as I walk the candlelit corridors, and everywhere I go, I hear laughter and excited voices.
There’s something about a new semester that feels so promising, like a fresh canvas just ready and waiting to be painted.
But before I can paint mine, there’s something I need to do. It’s something I’ve needed to do for far too long.
I make my way out the side entrance into the gardens. The weather deities have blessed us with a beautiful January day, though it’s still so cold that I have to pull my thick cloak tighter around my body to ward off the chill despite the heat from my fire magic.
The grounds are crunchy with snow—I guess the headmistress hasn’t found a replacementfor Cairn just yet—as I cross the garden and pass the raised beds still frozen and dormant. When I reach the big greenhouse, with light reflecting off the glass, I pause and take a steadying breath.
I have to do this. It’s the right thing to do.
Inside my cloak pocket, Juniper says, “I’m proud of you.”
I stroke a finger over her warm fur, then take a breath and say, “Well, better get it over with.”
Yanking open the door, I’m immediately bathed in warm air. The greenhouse is pleasant—so pleasant that I even consider taking my cloak off. And stooped over a raised bed two rows over is Professor Fleur.
She’s muttering something to herself as she presses seeds delicately into the soil, giving them an early start to the growing season. She twists her wrist, and a little sprinkle of water falls on each newly planted seed. Her eyes flick up to meet mine as I approach.
And a storm cloud rolls through her gaze.
Yeah, I expected that.
“Miss Wilder.” Professor Fleur straightens up and closes her fingers around the tiny seeds like she’s afraid I might set fire to them, then dance on their ashes while cackling maniacally. Her pale green hair is twisted into a chignon at the base of her neck, and her green eyes narrow suspiciously at me.
Okay, fair.
“What can I do for you?” she asks, voice about as frigid as the weather outside the greenhouse.
Last semester, Professor Fleur could hardly bring herself to speak to me after I burned down her precious midnight lotus flowers, and I likewise could hardly bring myself tospeak to her, though for me it was a matter of shame, and for her it was barely contained rage.
Even now, she looks like she wants to prick me with thorns, which I’m sure she’s more than capable of with her earth magic.
“Nothing,” I say, closing my fingers into fists at my sides, trying to brace myself. “I just want—no,need—to apologize for last semester.”
Professor Fleur’s brows rise, and some of the anger flickers from her eyes. “What?”
“I should have said it months ago.” I hold her gaze. “I’m sorry for ruining your flowers. I know how much they meant to you. It was an accident, but that doesn’t excuse what I did, and it especially doesn’t excuse me from giving you a proper apology. I’m so sorry, Professor. If there’s anything I can do to make up for it, I absolutely will.”
“No.” She holds up her free hand, the one not clinging to the seeds. “That won’t be necessary.”
