Loxen turns his head just enough to glance at it. “A black iris.”
I twirl the stem between my fingers. “It’s beautiful. Maybe a little sad,” I admit, “but beautiful.”
In my periphery, I see him nod, his gaze sweeping from the flower to my face. “Some people think they’re symbols of grief, of death,” he says, his voice low, and I loll my head towards him. “But I like to believe they’re a symbol of rebirth and resilience. A reminder that something beautiful can still bloom from ruin.” We stare at each other for a long moment before his eyes drift back to the stars. The words sink into my mind like a heavy stone sinking into the ocean.
Without thinking, I ask, “Do you think we’ll ever fully heal from our losses?” The question lingers in the air, too raw, too intimate, and I’m about to tell him to forget that I asked when he speaks again.
“No,” he finally says. His words aren’t harsh, just painfully honest. “I don’t think grief ever truly leaves us. It becomes a part of who we are. But if we’re lucky, we can learn to see the beauty in it. The memories, the love,” his eyes drift to me, “the strength it leaves behind.”
My throat suddenly feels tight. The honesty in his voice makes my chest ache, and I realize I’ve been staring at him longer than I meant to. His blue eyes bore into mine, andbreathing becomes a struggle. He’s handsome, but under the moonlight, he’s breathtaking.
“Thank you, Loxen,” I whisper.
He quirks a brow, grinning. “Loxen, hm? Are you sure you didn’t mean asshole?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “The name still stands.”
He chuckles, eyes peering into me like he’s discovering every secret I’ve ever kept. He inches forward, like he’s about to kiss me, and I still. His eyes fall to my lips, lingering there for a suspended heartbeat. Then, he exhales sharply and shakes his head, breaking the moment.
“Come on, little crow,” he says, voice low but gentle. “We’d better get you inside before Archie sends out a search party.”
I nod, following his lead. Perhaps Loxen and I are strangers, but in the shared grief of losing our mothers, our souls recognize each other. We are tragically acquainted.
TWELVE
VERENA GRAVENHURST
Steam curls around the rim of my coffee cup, swirling into the air, sending wafts of sweet notes straight to my nose. I take a sip, peering over the manor grounds from the balcony of my bedroom. It’s a gorgeous Saturday morning. Raindrops create a dewy shimmer, coating the fallen leaves. The world seems stiller than usual and a beauty to admire. Mauve should be arriving any moment. She’s been relentless with how many questions she’s asked about my entire life, wanting to learn anything and everything about her ‘new best friend’. I’ve invited her to spend the day with me at the manor, hoping that my ordinary life won’t be a disappointment when she sees that being Verena Gravenhurst isn’t all it’s chalked up to be.
A vehicle makes its way up the arched driveway, and excitement stirs in my stomach. When I notice her bright hair glimmering through the front window, I confirm that it is indeed Mauve arriving and sprint through the manor to greet my friend at the door. Skipping down the bifurcated staircase, I can’t help the smile that stretches across my mouth when I hear Archie scoff at something that has Mauve in stitches.
“Well, I see you two are becoming fast friends.” I snicker as I approach the two in the entranceway.
“Arch here was just telling me how much he loves the colour of my hair. I think this colour would suit him well, dontcha think?” she teases, and Archie’s face pales.
“I have no desire for my hair to match the walls of this establishment, Ms. Mauve.” Archie lifts his head a little higher, proud of himself for the smooth dig.
“Ouch, Arch,” Mauve’s hand flies to her chest as if stung by his words, “I thought we were friends.”
“Indeed, Ms. Mauve, we can be…friends,” he says awkwardly, and a howl escapes me, finding this unlikely interaction entirely amusing. Mauve and Archie are polar opposites, but their quirks oddly complement each other.
Archie takes his opportunity to sneak away, leaving us to our morning.
“Ren! This place is insane! You didn’t tell me you live in a mansion!” Mauve gawks. Her eyes are so wide they look like they’re about to bulge out of her skull. She lifts her arms out wide and spins in a circle, taking in the grandiosity of it all. If only she knew how foreign this way of living is to me, too. She spots the adjacent sitting room and gasps, stalking over to ogle at the fine furniture and embellished decor.
I stifle a laugh and link my arm through hers. “Come on, there’s lots to see and so much to talk about.”
She nods, allowing me to lead her to my bedroom, where we can gossip without prying ears. I quite like having a girlfriend I can spend time with. Another concept that is foreign to me.
We spend the remainder of the morning sitting on my plush bedding, laughing and talking about everything under the sun. Mauve gives me details on students at Hollowcrest and the cliques that have never truly accepted her. She’s always felt like the odd one out. The black sheep. And I feel a kinship with her longing to fit in, in a place where she’s felt she’s never truly belonged. It bonds us, the need for companionship and understanding.
“So, are you going to tell me how you and pretty boy are doing?” She raises a brow, waiting for me to spill the details. I look down at my hands, nervously picking at my nails, an anxious habit I picked up when I was younger, and have yet to break.
“Things are going well, actually. He planned a romantic date for us the other night at his family’s drive-in theatre, and we had a very nice time. I have to admit, I kind of like him.” Mauve purses her lips, her unease at the way I speak about him apparent in her expression. But she doesn’t say anything, just listens intently as I speak.
“Last night, things became more…intimate between us.” I struggle to find the words to explain the rapture of Reed’s tongue. ”
“Oh?” That seems to have piqued her interest.
