That had never been a problem for Emory back at Aldryn. But here, the pull of her magic wasunbearable. It was like her Tidecaller ability was always close to the surface, desperate to come out. It had been this way since the immense feat of power she’d displayed in the sleepscape, where sheshouldhave Collapsed but hadn’t. Like her power was eager for her to use more and more of it and finally tip the scales toward Collapsing. It was a pressure building painfully in her veins, the same way it had the summer after losing Romie, when the only thing that would lessen the pain was bloodletting.
Using her magic in small doses relieved that pressure more than bloodletting ever could, but it came with its own setbacks.
Don’t think about it, she told herself as she called on the Lightkeeper magic. It must have worked, because Romie blinked, looking right through her. A shadow moved at the edge of Emory’s vision, but she paid it no mind as she moved closer to the Amberyls.
“… told you to keep your distance.”
“I know, Mother.”
“Once your sister ascends, you’ll need to keep a close eye on her. I won’t have her mixed up in this.”
“They’re not half-bad,” Aspen replied meekly. “Maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to assume the worst. Surely there’s an explanation for why they have—”
“Don’t be foolish. You know the stories. And with the rot that has started to spread…” Mrs. Amberyl smoothed her stiff dress. “We cannot take chances now, especially with your sister not yet ascended. Never again will a witch fall prey to a demon’s cunning.”
Her words slithered unpleasantly along Emory’s senses—or perhaps the shiver that went through her was due to the ghost sidling up close to her, summoned by this echo of his own power. Emory jerked back, barely keeping a hold on her magic as she stared at the pallid face of the boy who haunted her.
Thiswas the worst part of using magic here—the ghosts it conjured.
They manifested whenever Emory used even a modicum of magic: specters at the edge of her vision, death lingering in the shadows around her, beckoning to her. It was as if calling on one tidal alignment opened the gates wide for the darker ones to seep through against her will. Shadowguide and Reaper magic alike, leeching on her guilt and her fear and her desperation. Making her afraid of her own power, the way she had been when she’d first discovered her Tidecaller abilities.
Her ghosts never spoke to her, but it was like she could read their minds all the same. And Keiran’s ghost was taunting her now, taking some grim, twisted pleasure in the fact that she was usinghistricks,hismagic. The thought made Emory feel dirty—even as some small part of her couldn’t help but feel proud at how quickly she’d learned to use this magic.
Before she could lose her cool and reveal herself to the Amberyls, she rushed back to Romie’s side, eager to leave the ghost behind.
Only once they were in the privacy of the small parlor that connected their conjoined rooms did Emory relay what she’d heard. She found it hard to focus as Romie rattled on with theories of what it all meant. She’d hoped the light filtering in from the large window might chase her lingering ghost away, but he was still there, smirking at her as if he knew the kind of hold he had on her, even in death.
He’s not real, Emory told herself, pressing her eyes shut. He couldn’t be. He was a figment of her imagination, called to the surface by the tangled web of emotions his death had weaved inside her:
Self-loathing at having let him play her like he had and not seeing the truth of him before she’d given him her heart.
Guilt at having let the umbrae kill him before her very eyes.
Relief that he was gone, that he’d gotten what he deserved.
Affection, still, despite it all, and this desperate need to understand why he’d done what he’d done, if only to justify her own part in it.
Emory wanted nothing more than to burn Keiran Dunhall Thornby out of her system. But his ghost would not let her, and maybe she deserved such a haunting.
After she’d hurt so many people she cared about, a small, ugly part of her took satisfaction in it—the pain of that pressure building in her veins when she resisted the pull of her magic, the ghosts it conjured when she gave into it. A twisted form of self-punishment.
“Did you use too much?”
Romie’s face was scrunched up in worry, mistaking Emory’s frayed state for the same post-magic fatigue she experienced. Something Emory was more than fine letting her believe.
She gave her a wan smile. “I’ll be all right.”
Romie leaned back against the window. There was that look inher eyes again that had Emory feeling inexplicably guilty. Ever since Romie had found out about Emory’s Tidecaller magic, she’d been acting tense any time Emory used it or brought it up. Emory would have expected her friend to be excited over such rare magic. Instead, she had the distinct impression that Romie wasafraidof it.
Or jealous.
Maybe both.
Whatever it was had Emory scared that the old rift between them might open again, and she would not let it, not so soon after getting her friend back. So she hid the full scope of her power, let herself appear weaker than she was, let Romie take charge of things while she followed along like the old version of herself would have. It felt odd to take a step back after having found such strength in herself in the wake of Romie’s disappearance, but if this was what was needed to keep the peace—to find a sense of normalcy in this strange place—then so be it.
“This wasn’t part of Clover’s story,” Romie said after a while. “Those who traveled through worlds… their magic was never affected like ours is.”
“That was a children’s story. I guess the reality is bleaker.”
