Of Whispers and Daggers ✓ [TLRQ #2]

Chapter 40 - Leavi

I lean against the door to my bedroom, blanket wrapped around my shoulders. He's gone. My fingertips brush against my forehead where his lips met my skin. The kiss lingers as a dry, warm ghost. Whatever he meant, it wasn't what it felt like. His fingers against my tears were only the fingers of a friend, and his grip on my shoulder was but the grip of an ally. His kiss to my head must have been the kiss of a brother. It must be, because I refuse to let myself entertain anything else anymore. He's been more than clear.

A dark weight settles in my chest, but I push off the wall and toss my blanket to the bed. "Are you ready to practice, Vihnzeirre?"

She ignores me.

I rifle through my bag and drop my book on the bedside table. Sliding down the opposite wall, I cross my legs. The stone floor steals my warmth, and the usual nerves at the thought of throwing myself off that inner cliff bubble within me. I shove it all aside. Let's fly, Vihn.

My hands twist in the air. "Fæn."

The abyss of magic envelops my mind, and my stomach falls out from under me. Pain builds behind my nose until I give into the freefall, and my eyes snap open.

My head is sharp and clear, and the silver undulates high and low on my skin like cold, quick flames.

Bring me the book, Vihn.

She plays on my skin.

Vihn!

The silver flames just dance.

I scowl and turn away from her display. The book mocks me from the edge of the table. I fix my eyes on it, hyper-aware of why it's there and why it shouldn't be. But I know begging her doesn't change reality. Vinzeirre doesn't listen to words, doesn't listen to reason.

I need something deeper.

Keeping my gaze steady, I reach into myself. What is it to want, to hope for, to need? A phantom memory of Aster's hand on my cheek rises up, but I turn away from it.

Firm certainty fills me. It's not that. The thing I'm looking for—it's marching through mountain snow on dead feet, knowing there's no way to go but forward. It's breaking a boy out of prison, giving an orphan girl your only jacket, chasing after a soldier with a sword you don't know how to use. It's falling off a cliff because it's the only way to fly.

The silver envelops me, and I stare at the book through its haze.

Come. It's a soft demand, not even truly a word. It's something beneath that, an insistence that the book should be in my hand, that I need to protect it, that there's something not right about it being so far away.

Come. It doesn't move, but I press the thought harder. It belongs to me. After everything else, everything I can't change, I can't fix, I can't protect, I need to change, fix, protect this.

Light outlines the book's edges, and anxious desire feeds my unspoken demand to come. The light grows, and I call at it, feel at it, yearn at it. Its wavering expansion taunts me and further convinces me it should be here.

With a pop, the light disappears and takes the book with it. Confusion floods me. Then a ball of silver light glows in my lap, and the book reappears from within it. The story book drops against my legs, and my jaw drops.

The silver ebbs away, taking its energy with it. Weariness washes my mind, and I pick up the book, barely believing it's in my hands. It didn't float over here; it teleported. It left this dimension, went through the anti-world, and came back to me. The mystery of it staggers me.

I hold the book to my chest.

My eyelids droop, and I drag myself to bed. I feel like I could lie here and not move for days. Still, accomplishment swirls through me, and I stoke it up to ignore whatever else the day has brought.

For the first time since I was a child, I sleep with a storybook under my pillow.