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We were only nine...

So much has changed since then. We are no longer little children. We are adults. And our lives have taken two different paths.

She, the daughter of the Domini, strong and full of life. I, the son of a high-ranking Councils member, weak and fragile.

I'm afraid she'll slip through my fingers, realize that I'm no longer the boy she used to play with for hours on end.

It had started when I was twelve. And it had never stopped.

Monday, June 2, 1997

Entry 2

“Let me guess, a book from Moenia?”

Alice grinned at me and made room for me on her windowsill.

“Mum had it hidden in her nightstand.”

Her mother was a powerful Earth Quatura. Strong, empathetic, and the epitome of composure. Rosalynd Blair was the perfect Domini. The perfect mother. How often I envied Alice for her family, even though I would never have admitted it.

“Your family is strange,” I said instead, sliding closer to her.

She was always much warmer than me. And I had realized that I needed her warmth.

“Says the right person,” she laughed, pushing me away.

Instead of warmth, I felt the cold that had been haunting me for a month.

I paused for a moment and looked at her.

A few weeks ago, on her twelfth birthday, she had her hair cut shorter so that it only reached her shoulders. Before that, sneaky little knots had always crept into her warm brown waves.

Unconsciously, Alice slid closer to me again and the feeling of cold disappeared.

“It's beautiful, Alaister.”

I was still looking at her, letting my eyes wander from her delicate snub nose to her high cheekbones.

She was beautiful. But I would never have dared to say that.

With her dainty fingers, she traced the golden snakes that intertwined and decorated the brown leather cover of the book.

I tried to touch the pattern, but stopped myself. I had seen it before.

“What kind of book is this?”

She opened the first page and the first thing I noticed was a runic script I didn't recognize.

“What do you think it says?” she asked, and I looked more closely at the runes.

Now I touched the soft brownish parchment, not as soft as her skin, but still a pleasant feeling.

“It's definitely not Latin.”

I continued leafing through the pages. Something I wouldn't have dared to do back then, as if my mother could have smelled the scent of the old paper on my fingers.

“Can your mother read it?” I asked.