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chapter seventeen; midnight kitchen talks
Amaya was back in the cruel confines of the small holding cell, she knew it, she could feel it —and by that, she meant the lack of magic, the coldness that came with its absence that seeped into her bones and coated her in fear, an icy void, the dank air thick with the haunting chill of despair and the stone walls whispered of forgotten screams. Her magic didn't work where magic had been restricted, it was just enough to keep her alive—but if she was back in the cell she would rather have been dead.
How had she gotten there, she was sure just the other day she'd been laughing with James at an Opera House, going shopping with Euphemia. They must've found her. They must've found out about her father and taken her in her sleep.
And now she was back in the small room—if one could even call it that—the cold lack of magic overwhelming her as she tried to open her eyes.
Her eyes peeled open and Amaya gasped. No one ever dared enter the holding cells if not necessary, no one wanted to have their magic taken away to the point they could feel its absence under their skin, like a vague hollow inside them, itching to be filled with whatever was closest. So the Guardas never dared to step in, never dared to do what they wanted to, though they mocked her about taking her every day.
But some of them were cruel, and they found it funny to drag the prisoners that wasted away without magic and shove them into her cell. Most were muggleborns. Most of them were children. Children with blank eyes and red-stained lips from their blood, children that sat on the cold stone floor of her cell and watched her go mad.
And now they looked over at her again. Only one this time, but she was sure more were to come. The Guardian had left him sitting against the wall opposite to her, brown eyes watchful of her even through their blank stare. Slouched against the wall, body limp, a solitary child with limbs twisted in odd places.
And when she recognized him, Amaya wanted to scream.
"Recognize that one?" a sinister whisper slithered into her ear and Amaya flinched, snapping her head to the side only to find yet another blank wall. "A child, little one, that's who you killed," the voice whispered by the other side of her head, sounding so much like her father that Amaya let out a sob. Its words dripped with malevolence, taunting her, using her guilt that clawed at the edges of her sanity.
She shook her head. "No, no, no. I didn't mean to—"
"That doesn't change what happened," this time the voice was coming from Elio's corpse, sitting opposite her. The voice she remembered was like a haunting memory, so sweet and childlike, squeaky at times. Elio's eyes looked past her but his mouth twisted into a wry smile, his teeth stained by the blood in his mouth, gnashing at her, painting a horrid picture. "I'm dead."
