“I heard what happened,” he says. His cheeks are pink from the cold. “They really fired you?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say distractedly.
“Are you okay?”
I almost laugh. “Am I okay?” I repeat.
Aspen frowns. “Can I come in?”
Atticus’s warning wedges itself into my thoughts. Can I really trust him? Can I trust anyone? My heartbeat flutters. “I just want to be alone,” I say, slightly pushing the door closed.
“Raven—”
“What we had was fun, but I think it’s best if we end it. I’m sorry,” I tell him.
The look of hurt on his face is convincing, making me believe for a brief moment that I’ve ruined the last good thing I have in my life, but I close the door anyway. I wait, listening for his footsteps to retreat before I head back upstairs.
Why is it that whenever I open my mouth, I always make things worse?
I busy my mind with reading. I pull blankets that smell like Atticus over my shoulders to stave off the chill; he never comes. I add more fuel to the fire, always glancing out the window, but the streets are empty. I eat dinner in silence, staring at a door that never opens. I wake after an hour’s nap when I think I hear it creak, but it’s just the wind.
Atticus isn’t coming home.
31
Dorian
It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn.
—Emily Brontë,Wuthering Heights
My clothes hangneatly in the closet, ready to be folded into a suitcase. I don’t have much. One pair of shoes. One coat. One toothbrush. The apartment came fully furnished, so I don’t have to worry about the rest.
While I pack, I think about Atticus. And Raven. And my future. I can’t imagine going forward without them in it. I don’t even have a plan. And Atticus—Atticus just stormed away. Raven tried to catch up with him, but he was gone. I wish I could explain, but all my thoughts are so murky and confusing, even I have a hard time seeing through the mess. The line between friend and lover has blurred. I like them both. They’re both so smart, so ambitious. They know what they want. I admired them the moment we met. Loved them, though I didn’t know the right words to say it. I don’t know how to label myself; maybe I don’t have to. Not now, at least.
But now they’re gone.
A pathetic laugh escapes me when I throw my suitcase lid closed.
What will I do now? Move back to the city. And do what? I have no idea. Start over, I guess. Seeking comfort, I touch my great-grandfather’s watch in my pocket. He started over, once. It’s nevertoo late to start again. But it’s a lot scarier doing it without my friends.
I really can heal with my touch…Maybe I can help my mom with her cancer. But would I just be making myself sick, too? How does my magic work? What can I do? How can I help? I have power I’ve only just begun to understand, but the truth is I don’t know anything about myself. Not really, not yet. Without Sibylline, I’m just stumbling in the dark.
I distract myself by cleaning my desk, throwing everything into a cardboard box, until I come upon the binder from Old Bones, the one with all the donor addresses I was supposed to mail thank-you letters to. I brought it home, promising Evander I’d complete my work before the gala, but I completely forgot about it. Granted, I had other things on my mind. I only got through mailing thank-you notes to surnames that began with the letterR.
Idly, for old times’ sake, I open the binder and riffle through the pages, scanning the contents.
Inside are the lists of names and the donated articles. Every artifact that comes into the museum has a paper trail. It’s the only way items can be verified in their origin by ordinary staff. Sometimes the names have hundreds of donations under them, but my attention snags on one name.
Stone, Jeremiah.
Warden Stone. My blood turns to ice in my veins when I read what he donated. I sit on my bed as I read and reread the entry to make sure I’m not hallucinating. I’ve seen them before. I remember them all too well. I can’t not.
Warden Jeremiah Stone donated three artifacts to the museum.
One necklace made from carved beetles.
One onyx ring with snake detailing.
