Kian jerked, like something had suddenly pinched deep in his chest. He sniffed once. Touched his upper lip.
Blood. A thin red streak glinted in the candlelight like spilled ink.
Riya shot to her feet. “You’re bleeding.”
Kian blinked at his fingers. “Oh. It’s fine. Just a nosebleed. I—I get them sometimes.”
A lie. The way he wouldn’t meet her eyes, when he always,alwaysdid.
“It’snotfine,” she said firmly. Her hand found his arm. “We need to get you upstairs.”
Mel fumbled for her bag. “Should we call someone?”
“No,” Kian said quickly. His eyes found Riya’s. “Seriously, I’ll be fine.”
Riya didn’t argue. She hauled him up.
They were halfway to the stairs when Julia’s voice followed: “Wait.”
Riya turned. Julia stood at the edge of the rug, gaze steady.
“The threads that connect us,” she said, voice low. “They don’t always ask permission. But they still mean something.” Her gaze flicked again between Riya and Kian. “Whatever happens—don’t let go.”
Riya’s temper flared. Julia, with all her candles and metaphors, had some nerve doling out riddles while blood gushed from Kian’s nose.
And then—for an instant—something glared in Julia’s gaze.
Warm and metallic. Like gold catching flame.
Candlelight, she told herself.Just candlelight.
But as she helped Kian up the stairs, something knotted tight inside her. Because whatever Julia was—or wasn’t—wrong about, one thing was becoming harder to deny: The curse was consuming Kian.
And if they didn’t find a cure soon, there wouldn’t be anything left to hold on to.
Chapter 22
Riya had almost forgotten about the senior field trip to the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
This was... troubling.
She’d been the one to suggest it during an early Student Council meeting, which had earned a smirk from Quin. “Very on-brand for you,” they’d said—a compliment or an insult, Riya couldn’t tell. She’d even scheduled the buses, filed the paperwork. Triple-checked every detail. And yet as of this morning, about eighteen days since she’d cast the curse, she could not care less.
At the edge of the school parking lot, she watched clusters of seniors shuffle onto the buses and wished she was anywhere else.
When they arrived in Philadelphia, students piled out to pose with the Rocky statue. The museum loomed like a giant neoclassical temple, columns stretching toward the sky. Some of the seniors were already racing up the steps: Andrew among them, fists high, soccer team in tow.
Mrs. Kang brought up the rear with her clipboard. “Head count’s done. Everyone’s here. A miracle.” She glanced at Riya. “Go have fun with your friends.”
The word hung awkwardly. Riya didn’t correct her. She didn’t want to hurt Kian’s feelings.
“Oh, and Kian? I got your tech request. Do you need anything else for your perfo—” Mrs. Kang added, but Kian’s eyes went wide.
“No, no!” He laughed too quickly. “All good. Thanks. I’ll follow up.”
Suspicious. But Riya decided that was none of her business.
She pulled out her notebook and flipped it open—not to her Caltech essay but to her scrawled notes on curse theory, her tests on Kian, and every scrap she would remember from her khala’s lessons.
