Rimwick

A Leatherbound Journal

The next several weeks pass... not in a blur, exactly. I'm not that clichè. But they go by quickly, with individual events connecting in a hazy chain. I like the way the Dusk Children can communicate just by looking at each other. Early in the mornings, when we return from our lessons in the clearing, we sit around the low wood table in quiet camaraderie. In Rimwick, silence is awkward, and still rooms are quickly filled with polite small talk. It's not that the Dusk Children never speak- they do. Anvil and Echo in particular grow increasingly chatty around me. But the Children don't talk when there's nothing they want to say.

School is an interesting experience. We play games like Color Hunt and Snowball Fight, but even after a month, none of them have repeated. I'm not very good at the competitions that involve navigating the forest by myself, but I excel at battle planning and strategy. The Dusk Children, even Felix and Fallon, start listening to me. I have yet to win an individual game, but I've been on a victorious team several times.

There are other classes, too, where we listen to histories that sound more like legends. Sometimes Echo sings them aloud, and her colorful images illustrate the night. Those are my favorite times. I like nesting on boulders in the snow and letting the stories envelope me.

As much as I'm beginning to love Nocterem, I surprise myself by missing Rimwick. The lack of showers was a real problem at first, until I discovered the hot springs used for bathing in the hills. We get other water by boiling snow or melting ice from the creek. There's so much work to do here, so many chores, and I go to sleep exhausted every morning. Even though I still have the herbs I took from Mom sitting in the bag beside my bed, the ones meant for Roman, I decide not to use them. There's no need now that I've proved I belong here.

I stop thinking about Daria, and Jay, and Isaac. They don't matter anymore.

"What do you mean, they don't matter?" Felix asks when I tell him. We're running through the woods, an activity I've started doing regularly in order to help me learn about the hills. "They hurt you, of course they matter."

Watching my feet to make sure they don't slip, I struggle with a way to explain myself. "I know they matter, but I just don't care about them. What they do or think. Before, my problem was that I cared too much."

Felix studies me. Somehow, he can run without crashing to the snowy ground even when he isn't looking at the obstacles ahead of him.

"I wish I was like that," he says, finally. "But I don't know if I'll ever forgive Rimwick for turning its back on me."

I don't really know what to say to that. So I change the subject.

"What's your power?" It's been over a month, and I still don't know.

"I don't like talking about it."

"What? Why not?"

"That's what you become known for, as a Dusk Child. Like Echo? Master Atlas isn't the only one who calls her The Singer. Her power is who she is. But with you, I'd like..." He stops running and brushes my fingertips with his hand. "I'd like to be just me. Felix, without a power. Will you do me a favor, Riley? Please, this is important to me."

"What?" I ask in a whisper. My voice matches his low, earnest tone. He's standing close to me, respectfully, but still close, and I catch myself wishing he'd do something else. Grasp my hand with his instead of just letting our fingers touch, put his arm around me and pull me close against the wind, smile at me and tell me, again, that he's glad I'm a Dusk Child.

"Don't try to figure it out," he says instead. "My magic. Please don't go looking for the answer, because I'd rather you just know me like this."

"Okay," I agree. His eyes are gorgeous when he's passionate about something.

"I appreciate it," Felix says, polite the way Isaac always was, and then he reaches forward and squeezes my hand before letting go and running again. The wind buffets me back, but I follow.

It's not even dusk yet, and already the snow is falling thick as syrup. I can hardly see, a situation which is most certainly not improved by the hair that's blowing in my face. The storm is worsening too, winds fighting to blow down Jericho with all the mighty zeal of a trumpet's puncturing call, and the daylight gives me no power to stab a hole through the tempest with my voice. I trip, on a rock, and slide through the snow on my stomach. Grappling with the ground and the wind, I try to stand and fall again.

Desperately, I rise, push myself up and take a step before the air whips a tree branch against my back. Like a teacher's smack across the hand, it humbles me, and I land on my hands and knees in the snow with my yellow hair dangling in a sopping mess in front of me.

A tear splashes out of my eye and lands on my hand, then freezes. I look down at it and see something, a corner of brown, displayed under my numb fingers. Scrabbling at the ice, I uncover the item- a thick, leatherbound journal with a dull brass clasp. A symbol is etched on the cover. It's an o, with a small green jewel in the center. Mezmerised by the unexpected beauty, I touch the stone.

A shock travels up my arm. I yell as it travels, agony shooting through me until a stabbing pain racks the center of my heart. An explosion flashes in my head and I fall into the snow as the storm shuts itself off, a candle flame pinched by a murderous hand, and the snow hangs suspended in the air. 

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