I nod, my throat too tight to speak again, and slip out into the corridor.
Her words echo in my mind as I make my way through the castle, past students hurrying to their next exams, past professors walking with armfuls of parchment and fingers smudged with ink.Sometimes we have to meet it halfway.
But what does that mean? Does she expect me to chase after Aric? To demand he take back the break he asked for? Or does it mean something else—something about showing up to the ball, about being brave enough to face the thing that scares me most?
My mind flashes with an image of Aric dancing with Morgan, twirling her across the floor, leaving me standing in the shadows, where it feels like I’ve always been.
I clench my teeth and shove the image away, narrowly avoiding bumping into a group of fourth-years in the hallway.
All I know is that Professor Silvermoon seemed certain, like she’s already seen how this story ends.
And maybe that means there’s still hope.
The thought doesn’t ease the ache in my chest, but it plants something small inside me, something that feels like... courage.
Stepping into that ballroom on Saturday—wearing the dress I bought, holding my head high even if my heart is broken—will require being brave.
But if Professor Silvermoon is right, if the universe really does give us what we need when we’re willing to meet it halfway...
Then perhaps I need to stop waiting for things to happen to me and instead decide to fight for what I want.
I just wish I knew how.
Chapter 51
Aric
THE KITCHEN CLASSROOM SMELLS LIKE cinnamon and flour, and the air is filled with the sounds of dicing, stirring, and whispered spells. Around me, the other students work at their individual cooking stations, preparing their final meals for our Kitchen Spellwork exam. This is my last exam of the semester. Then I’ll be done.
But I can’t focus. Because three stations down and one row over, Poppy is working.
I can see her from where I stand, her head bent over her cutting board, her hands moving with practiced confidence as she dices root vegetables into perfect cubes. She’s wearing her hair in a neat braid today, and even from here, I can see the small furrow of concentration between her brows, her glasses glinting in the late-afternoon sunlight coming through the window. She’s completely absorbed in her work, the way she always is when she’s doing something that matters.
And despite my staring, she hasn’t looked at me once.
“Mr. Vandermere.” Professor Sage’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Your reduction sauce is about to burn.”
Shit.
I jerk my attention back to my own station, quickly adjusting the temperature charm on my pan. The sauce—meant to complement the roasted winter squash—has gone from a simmer to an angry boil. I manage to save it, but barely.
Focus. I need to focus. Of all my exams, this shouldnotbe the one that results in a failing grade.
At the front of the classroom, Headmistress Moonhart sits at a long table with three other professors, who chat casually while waiting to be served their meals.
This isn’t just our final exam—it’s a demonstration of everything we’ve learned this semester.
And I’m already behind.
I force myself to look at my recipe card, which has the list of dishes I’m supposed to prepare: sautéed root vegetables with herb butter, winter squash with a red wine reduction, fresh biscuits that should be both crumblyandpillowy, and spiced apple tart for dessert. A proper Yule feast, all requiring precise timing and careful spellwork.
I should be able to do this. But last time I used the leavening charm, when Poppy and I were making honey cakes, I got some of the words wrong, and our cakes deflated because of it.
Just another example of me letting her down, being a burden.
My hands shake as I measure out the flour. I’m really trying to focus, but I can’t stop thinking about how Poppy’s the one who worked with me all semester, how we whisked and diced and smiled our way through meal after meal together.
I miss that smile. I missher.
