Give the Dark My Love(60)

I leaned in closer to her, gently rubbing my thumb on her hand. “Besides,” I added, “you could see your family.”

“Just because you leave campus doesn’t mean you stop working.” Master Ostrum gave her a single book, slender and worn. Then he pulled out a parchment envelope and handed it to me. “You’re dismissed,” he said as I took the paper.

I frowned but left anyway. “I’ll be waiting outside,” I told Nedra.

In the corridor, I opened the envelope. My parents informed me that I was to meet the family carriage at the school gates by eight chimes. Word traveled fast.

Nedra opened Master Ostrum’s office door a moment later, her head down, her bag slung over her shoulder, the book in her hand.

“What did he want?” I asked.

“He gave me some money,” she said, as if still surprised by it.

“What for?” I led the way up the stairs to the door of the administration building.

“So I could pay a skipper to take me to my village.”

I was ashamed that I’d not thought of it myself. I had plenty of coin to pay for her travels. It would mean nothing to me and everything to her. But I’d not even considered it. “Nedra, I—”

“I’m going to stop at the quarantine hospital on the way,” Nedra said. “Then take another ferry up to the north shore.”

She paused, as if waiting to see if I would accompany her. “My parents are sending a carriage . . .” I said lamely.

The air outside was crisp. Nedra leaned up on her toes and kissed my nose. “I’m horrid at goodbyes,” she said. “It’s better this way.”

We walked slowly across the quad, then lingered in front of our separate dormitories. “Well,” Nedra finally said.

I tried to hold her tighter, but I could already feel her pulling away. “It won’t be long,” I said.

She kissed me again, lightly on the lips, but when she pulled away, the look in her eyes was distant. She was still right in front of me, but she was already gone.





THIRTY-SEVEN


    Nedra



I awoke with parchment stuck to my face and my nose pressed into the open spine of a medical tome.

Maybe Grey was right. Maybe I did need a break.

I peeled myself out of my desk chair and stood, my muscles aching and my spine popping. Grey had left the evening before, and I was glad that we didn’t have to linger over farewells today.

I packed quickly, but my satchel was heavier now than when I’d first come to Northface Harbor. I carried with me not just my golden crucible, but also books—including the one Master Ostrum had given me last night. I’d skimmed through it, but even though the volume was thin, the text was handwritten and difficult to read.

“This was Wellebourne’s,” Master Ostrum had said. “It’s been passed down through my family over the generations. Ancestors have added a few notes here and there. But it was his.”

It felt odd, knowing that I would be reading Wellebourne’s own words, written in his hand—the same hand that I had held after it had been cut off and turned into a crucible cage. I’d read some of his work before—his poetry as a young man, his treatises as the first governor of Lunar Island. But nothing from after his descent into necromancy—they didn’t cover those writings in textbooks. A quick scan of the journal last night indicated that this was far more personal than an instructional manual.

The last chapter had been written by Wellebourne’s son. The first part was a description of Wellebourne’s last days, particularly the hope his son had when he’d been called to his father’s prison, followed by the horror when he saw the bloody wound where his father’s hand should be. The rest of the chapter was a warning—not just to hide the crucible cage so no one could use it to become a necromancer, but also to avoid necromancy at all costs. It is a madness, the chapter concluded, one I hope is not in our blood.

I was the last person to leave the dormitories. The cafeteria was already closed, nothing but a basket of apples on the doorstep for anyone who remained. Most of the students—even the ones whose families lived just a few miles away—left the school in fancy carriages, fine horses throwing their heads back, their hooves clattering on the street.

I kept my head down, lost in thought, as I made my way downhill to Blackdocks. I was so distracted that I almost collided with the wagon being pulled up the street, bumping on the cobblestones.

“Watch’er!” the driver shouted, yanking on the reins and pulling his cart up sharply.

The scent of blood and death hit me as violently as a punch. My eyes drifted down the side of the cart, to the grimy cloth covering lumpy contents. Behind him, the sun crept over the bay, glittering red on the water. The death cart was early, out even before the first shift of workers left for the factory.

“You all right?” the driver asked.

“Yes, sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

He tipped his head back. “I’ve seen you around. Where’s your city boy?”

The corner of my mouth twitched in a smile. Mine. “He’s visiting his family.”

The driver took in the pack strapped to my back. “That where you heading?”

I nodded.

“You’re from the north, yeah?”