Page 9

Calista

“Iswear to God, Calista! If you don’t get back over here, I’ll⁠—”

I wake with a start, my skull pounding at my temples as I sit up too quickly, my breath sawing from my chest. It was a nightmare, Calista. Get a hold of yourself.

The dark room flickers with the remaining embers of a candle I don’t recall lighting before drifting off to a nightmare-dampened existence. Shadows cling to the corners, too stubborn to yield even to that frail flame, my pulse beginning to slow despite the eerie shapes that form if I stare at them too long.

I press the heels of my palms to my closed lids, fighting the vertigo, and drag in a few slow breaths in a desperate attempt to calm the anxieties plaguing me. Not that much besides Alastair’s warm embrace has ever calmed the pit of dread that sits so heavily in my chest, but I try all the same. I blink my lashes open, my vision clearing as my pupils dilate and I grow more familiar with the low-lighting surrounding me.

I take in the small, familiar details: the books stacked at uneven heights settled atop the dark wooden armoire, the paintings lining every wall of celestial goddesses and ravens with feathers so black they appear to have a purple hue, and the maroon velvet curtain that will not stay shut. All ordinary, and yet not.

Lately, even the ordinary has begun to tilt askew. Headaches that come and go without reason. A sickly dizziness, as though the ground beneath me is breathing. Perhaps it is the season, or my grief refusing to be subdued. Memories of John have haunted me more fiercely of late, clinging like smoke to the walls of my mind. As if being wed to him for two years was not punishment enough for my sins, the anniversary of his passing insists upon clawing me open again with the reminder of all that I am capable of.

I remain caught in that thought for an uncomfortable moment, the darkness of that time stretching around me, but a pounding rattles my door and jolts me from the memories of a time I wish I’d long forgotten.

“Calista! Come quickly,” Ophelia cries through the thick wood, her voice strained, and high-pitched with urgency.

My stomach drops, an instinct whispering that our recent loss is not over.

I shove my feet into my slippers, snatch up my robe, and cross the room before the knocking can resume. Ophelia’s face greets me in the corridor—pale, her eyes wide as moons.

“It’s Philomela,” she breathes. “Something’s wrong.”

The air in the corridor feels heavier than it should as we hurry along the dim hall, our slippers scuffling against the cold floors. Others join the swell—students, a few professors—voices hushed with unease. When we reach Philomela’s door, Adrian Delacort is there, fists hammering against the mahogany.

“Open it, damn you! Mela, open the door!” Spit flies with each word, his knuckles reddening against the wood. His voice cracks on her name, but it does not sound like tenderness—it sounds like command, like anger disguised as panic.

“She won’t answer,” Ophelia whispers. “She hasn’t for some time. She never showed to a get-together the students were hosting in the courtyard. Adrian became worried and sought her out.” I’m certain his concerns were far more nefarious than he leads on, but I’m not about to have that conversation here with prying eyes and ears.

The crowd presses closer, and as I look around the hall with its tall ceilings and thin wrought-iron railing overlooking the dimly lit floor below, my stomach churns with unease. “Where is Alastair? And the headmaster?”

“I haven’t seen Alastair, and Professor Dinwoodie is fetching Whitmore,” Ophelia answers in earnest.

I pull my robe around my waist and with a nod of my head, rush toward Alastair’s bedchambers. Surely, he’ll know what to do. He’s always been best in times of crisis.

With the thundering of my heart and the spinning of the room, I fear I may no longer be the person others count on in uncertain situations. I was once well-equipped to handle such a situation without the man who makes me feel sturdier on my feet, but it seems that is no longer the case.

I sprint to his room, tripping over my own feet, and just as I raise my fist to knock, he yanks his door open, eyes wide, hair mussed.

“Calista?” he breathes out, head dipping as he cups my cheeks in his warm palms, dragging me against his chest. All of my earlier weariness seems to seep out of me with his tender caress, and for just a moment, I allow myself to forget why I’m here at all. “I woke from a nightmare. I-I thought something had happened to you,” he whispers against my hair, strong arms enveloping me.

The hum of anxiety buzzing through me quietens in his grasp, replaced by a beat of blissful silence which passes between us before we’re both pulling back with a renewed sense of worry.

His deep auburn brows furrow. “Why are you here? Is something amiss?”

The early morning’s events return all at once, stripping away any lingering illusion of simplicity. I sought this place for quiet, for a life unmarred by complication, but peace has always found a way to slip through my fingers.

“Yes, Alastair. Come with me,” I answer, grabbing his hand and pulling him back the way I came. “Philomela isn’t answering her door. Everyone is worried.” I explain the little that I know about the situation as we make our way to her room with haste.

The crowd has doubled since I left in search of help. Alastair strides to Philomela’s room, the students parting for him with ease—all but one, that is.

He leans down and whispers something to Adrian Delacort, earning him a sidelong glare, but he moves out of his way. With one decisive shove of his shoulder, the door yields. I hurry in after Alastair and Ophelia is quick to place herself in front of the entrance like a sentinel in lace, preventing any students from following in after us.

The scene inside arrests me all at once. The bathroom light is the only illumination, spilling a wan glow across the stone floor. Steam still clings to the air, mingling with a metallic tang that makes my stomach twist.

Philomela lies beside the bathtub, her curls spread like a halo of gold turned ghastly in the blood, her head at an unnatural angle. A crimson pool has seeped beneath her, thick and glistening. The jagged edge of porcelain bears the mark of her fall.

For a heartbeat, the only sound is the dripping of water from the half-filled tub. Then the whispers begin. Ophelia’s shouted pleas for Adrian to stand back, his refusal, and finally, his arrival at the scene of a crime I’m not so certain he hadn’t played a part in.