“It wasn’t stolen.”
“You have it, Aria! That’s theft. You don’t know where it came from or what kind of trap it is—”
“It came fromthem,” I snap, snatching the journal back. “Our parents. It’sours. It shouldn’t be rotting in some dusty archive.”
Luna’s nostrils flare. “This isn’t about their legacy. This is about you spiraling again. You always do this! Dom shows up with some broken gift, a half apology, and a few sad eyes, and you forget how to think.”
“I’m spiraling?” I bark a laugh. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Her spine straightens. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, don’t act wounded. I saw your little performance forWhispersilk. ‘The Ellis Legacy Lives On.’ Tell me, does Alexander pat your head when you perform your tricks?”
Color floods her cheeks. “I thought you didn’t want it. Their work. Their legacy. I thought I was doing you a favor.”
“It’s not a favor,” I spit. “It’s a knife in my back and I don’t want you anywhere near him.”
“I’m not a child, Aria. I can make my own decisions.”
“Can you?” My voice turns sharp. “Because Alexander isn’t your mentor. He’s a puppeteer and you’re just another convenient string.”
Her chin lifts. “He’s been nothing but kind to me.”
“Oh,kind,” I echo. “Of course. Unlike the Blackwoods, right? At least they don’t pretend to be saints while gutting the world from the inside.”
“You think Dom’s some great exception? You think he gave you that journal out of the kindness of his heart? You’re not special to them, Aria. You’re leverage.”
The blow lands exactly where she meant it to.
I stand, my own magic sputtering weakly. “I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out.” My hand’s already on the doorknob. “Don’t wait up.”
She doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t shout or apologize, just watches me with that infuriatingly composed expression I’ve always hated.
“I never do,” she says as I open the door. “I learned a long time ago you only need me when something’s broken. When Dom fucks up or everything falls apart. I’m not just someone you come to when you need to vent, Aria. I’m not your cleanup crew.”
I pause. Half-turned. “I never asked you to be.”
“No,” Luna says softly. “You just expect it.”
The silence opens between us like a chasm neither of us knows how to cross.
“Fine,” I whisper.
“Fine,” she echoes.
And the door slams shut behind me.
The door slams withenough force to rattle the windows, and I want to scream. My gaze snags on the two journals abandoned on the desk, Mother’s final offering and Dom’s illicit gift, both discarded, as everything she touches always is. That’s what Aria does: consume, abandon, forget. Always taking. Never giving back.
My fingers tremble as I gather them, the leather smooth and cool against my palms. Mother’s journal still carries the faintest trace of jasmine, so delicate I can’t tell if it’s real or if my grief is trying to perfume the air. Aria has the audacity to leave these here, scattered among her chaos as if they mean nothing. As if Mother’s final words, her last gift, are another burden to abandon. As if every secret I would have treasured is just something else for her to throw away.
Was it only birth order? Those three measly years that made Aria the chosen one. And me . . . what? The spare? The afterthought? The daughter nobody bothered to want?
Memories I’ve tried to bury claw their way back, each one a fresh wound.
