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Caught out, I looked back at Quentin, who was still staring at me.

Damn it, what was he doing?

With growing nervousness, I looked back at our hands.

His fingertips were still shimmering. But no matter how wondrous and beautiful this effect looked underwater, it didn't distract me from his gaze. A gaze that seemed to be studying my face.

I felt overwhelmed. More and more.

If he didn't stop, I...

Slowly, I pulled my hand out of his, pulled it out of the bowl, even though I didn't want this moment to end.

My attention was drawn to my wet palms.

Stunned, I examined the spot where my blood had been flowing just five minutes ago. There wasn't even a scar left. Not like on my left forearm, which was covered with almost forty tiny scars.

When I looked up again, I caught Quentin's gaze, which was fixed on those very scars. And suddenly I felt incredibly exposed.

I hadn't done it again since the winter ball, even though I had suffered a mental breakdown after that one incident.

The old Julie did things like that, but the new Julie was stronger than that. She had to be strong. For her baby.

Office Talk

Christopher Tyng

Hastily, I pulled my arm away and let the lab coat slide over the spot.

I got up from my chair, but held on to the edge of the table because I felt like I was losing my balance, most likely due to blood loss.

“You wanted to show me something?” I asked Quentin, but avoided his gaze.

He hesitated, but then, finally, he stood up and pulled his own hand out of the bright red water.

I didn't know whether to thank him. Of course, I was grateful to him for healing the wound and for saving me from that stupid football. Much more than that. I had feelings for this man. But he didn't know that, and he would laugh if I thanked him.

“I think I know where the source of your powers might lie.”

Surprised, I looked up at him.

Quentin took the bowl to the sink, where he emptied and cleaned it.

He left me waiting, letting the questions in my head flood me. Questions about these powers that had been racking my brain for months. I was still searching for ways to find a control stone. In vain.

Quentin returned, his inscrutable gaze fixed on me.

“Is there anyone in your family who is also blessed with this gift?”

Blessed. Was that what he saw in this uncontrollable and cold chaos?

“My father”

Because no one talked about him, I had given up on further investigation. It had been pointless to chase after a ghost whose existence seemed to have been almost erased. The secret room with the antlers above Director Copeland's office was my last hope.

Quentin raised both eyebrows. “Your father is a Quatura?”

“Was,” I replied quickly. “He's dead.”