That’s the reason I’ll speak to her. Not because the floating flames keep catching the gold flecks in her brown eyes, or because the loose strand of honey-blonde hair resting against her neck makes me want to brush it back. No—figuring outwhat happened to her emberlinked partner is why I’m here. It’s perfectly reasonable for me to want to follow up.
My feet are moving before I’ve fully decided to let them, and my heart beats faster with every step I take toward her.
On instinct, I twist the ring on my finger again. Not hard enough to draw blood, but enough that the spike against my skin reminds me to stay present.
She looks up when I’m about ten feet away, and I brace myself for her to flinch, or look away, or any of the telltale signs that she doesn’t want me near her.
Instead, relief floods her face, and I almost stop walking. Because girls don’t look at me like that. They don’t watch me cross a room like my presence is a comfort instead of a threat.
By the time I lean against the wall beside her, my hands are shaking, and when she gazes up at me with those gold-flecked eyes, every thought I had about professional follow-up questions dies a quiet death.
“You’re not celebrating,” I say, immediately wishing I’d come up with a better opening line.
Three years of Council interviews, and I approach the girl like I’m commenting on the weather.
She glances at the drink I’ve been holding like a prop for the past twenty minutes, and instead of the polite dismissal I’m bracing for, her mouth curves into a small smile.
“Aren’t Council members supposed to be above fraternizing with students at illegal parties?”
She’s teasing me.
My brain short-circuits for a half second, because girls don’t tease me. They excuse themselves, or they go quiet, or they ask the question I can always see forming behind their eyes—can you read my mind right now?—and the conversation dies before it starts.
“Probably,” I manage, the ease in my voice surprising me. “And aren’t worried emberlinked partners supposed to be resting in their rooms?”
Her smile vanishes, her gaze dropping to her drink like it’s the most interesting thing in the room.
The party noise fills the gap between us, and I run through a dozen ways to walk back what I said. None of them are any good, and the silence stretches until I’m convinced she’s about to excuse herself and leave me standing against this wall alone.
Then she speaks, so quietly I have to lean closer to hear her.
“The bond feels wrong.” She swallows, then keeps going. “It’s different than I expected it to feel if he was just far away.”
I should give her the official line.
Emberlink bonds behave unpredictably. We believe what you’re feeling right now is due to magical interference from the surrounding seas.
But my mouth won’t form the words, because she’s still here, and she’s not afraid of me, and the warmth of that is undoing me faster than any of Salvatore’s memories ever could.
“I know what it’s like to feel broken inside and have everyone tell you it’ll be fine,” I confess instead, and her eyes go soft in a way that makes my chest ache. “It doesn’t help. I know it doesn’t help.”
She looks at me then—reallylooksat me—and the impact of her attention is startling.
Most people’s gazes slide off me like water. They see the Council’s haunted prodigy with centuries of trauma forced into his head, and they take a half step back without realizing they’re doing it. But Avery Chambers is looking at me the way I look at fragmented memories—with the determination to see what’s actually there instead of what’s easiest to accept.
“The official explanation is that emberlink bonds can behave unpredictably in unique circumstances,” I continue, hating eachword as I say it. “They’re blaming magical interference from the sea.”
“Do you think he’s coming back?” she asks without pausing to consider if what I’m saying could be correct.
The question is a blade, and she’s handing it to me, trusting me to hold it without cutting her.
I could lie.
Of course he’s coming back. The Council’s doing everything we can, and progress has already been made.
But she’s close enough that the warmth of her arm bleeds through my sleeve, and her eyes are searching mine with an openness that makes my ribs ache, and I can’t remember the last time someone stood this close to me without looking for the exit.
“I don’t know,” I admit, wishing I could give her a better answer. “I’m sorry. That’s not what you needed to hear.”
