Antebellum Awakening (The Network Series #2)(22)

Jansson drew in a deep breath.

“As your leader, I urge you to be cautious. Everything you do reflects on your career in some way. But as you are petitioning the people for their opinion, and are free to have your own, I cannot withhold my support to continue.”

“Thank you, Council Member,” Clive said with audible relief. “It’s greatly appreciated.”

The building power slipped out of my control for only one second, but it was enough. Books exploded from the shelves near Clive and Jansson, raining on top of them in a fall of paper and ink.

“Jikes!” Clive shouted, leaping out of the way. Jansson deflected a few volumes that almost tumbled onto his head with a quick spell. A final tome several inches thick caught Clive on the shoulder. Two librarians rushed to the scene, clucking and pecking after the torn pages like a bunch of hens.

Take that, Clive.

With the librarians cleaning up the mess, Clive and Jansson started walking toward me. Clive’s rat-like face, wide ears, and sharp nose contrasted with the droopy skin and mild, rounded features of Jansson’s face.

“Haunted, I tell you. Just like the southern turret,” Clive muttered, brushing his fingers through his hair to straighten it. “Or that batty old librarian did it.”

I retreated as they neared and pressed my back to the bookshelf. Clive, already jabbering about his plans for the first rally, soared past. Jansson, however, glanced over his shoulder.

If I hadn’t had so much faith in the integrity of my magic, I’d have said he looked right into my eyes.

???

My breath came fast, hot, and with great pain the next morning.

I jogged along a well-worn trail in Letum Wood that the Guardians used for training runs. Merrick remained just behind me, trailing at my heels like an overeager puppy. The last tendrils of night still clung to the heavy canopy of Letum Wood, reluctantly giving sway to the rising sun’s greater power. The air was cool and crisp.

The steep hills with jagged spines made of boulders and roots challenged my weakened leg muscles. Despite my two-month break from running, I found my body eagerly gobbling up the familiar motions of pounding down the trail. I was used to pushing past physical fatigue. Although it would take time to gain my speed back, in essence the running rhythm was already returning in full force. My mental capacity to face Letum Wood, however, was as feeble as ever. I felt like my body was a traitor to my mind. I didn’t want to enjoy running again, but I couldn’t help the small sense of elation it brought me. Papa spoke of running as an outlet for my emotions, but he was wrong. It only made them stronger.

“Faster,” Merrick said, barely winded. “Push yourself.”

Irritated, I picked up speed, but the burst cost me. I’d never be able to maintain this pace and fight back the memories, so I slowed down again. Avoiding the recollections was my first priority.

Flashes of white ghosted by me in Letum Wood every now and then, sometimes followed by a stray giggle. I held them off by translating words into the language of the Ancients, forcing my mind to conjugate verbs over and over. But I wasn’t stronger than whatever power I fought. Any moment now and Mama’s memory would plague me again.

The sway of the canopy high above mocked me as I scampered past, tripping over roots and nearly breaking my toe. A few birds hopped from branch to branch, staring at me with their heads cocked to one side. I allowed myself an occasional glimpse into the darkness now and then, wondering if my dragon friend was near.

All the forced thoughts that ran through my mind came to a sudden halt when a familiar little girl with gray eyes ran onto the trail in front of me, her ghostly hair waving behind her.

I skidded to a stop with a gasp. Even though I expected the memories, the shock was still brutal. The child hopped up and down, trying to catch a butterfly with gauzy green and blue wings. Mama stepped out of the forest.

No, Bianca, she said, rushing over to the little girl. She grabbed her hands and pulled them down. Don’t hurt the butterfly. If you hold still, it’ll come to you.

My heart raced, my blood pumped, and the magic stirred with painful stabs, threatening to slip away. I turned, unable to bear it.

“What?” Merrick asked, gazing around. “What’s wrong?”

“Stitch,” I lied through a gasp, doubling over and grabbing my side. “I just need to gain my breath.”

“Breathe through it, then. You need to keep running.”

I hesitated. The memories would continue to come. I could feel it in the violent surges of power.

“No,” I said in a panic, my eyes squeezed shut. “I’m done.”

“No, you’re not. Let’s go,” he said in a firm tone.

Explaining my real reason would be far more painful than dealing with Merrick’s disapproval, however it stung.

“I can’t, Merrick,” I whispered. Tears choked my throat, but I forced them back. No weakness. No tears. “I’m done.”

See? Mama’s voice asked, resurrected from the deepest, most vulnerable parts of my mind. If you’re patient, the butterfly comes to you. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

I wanted to scream just to hide the sound of her voice. The tears building up in my throat threatened to explode in a violent sob.

It was real once, my heart whispered. You can’t deny that.

But it’s not now, I thought. She’s gone. Mama’s in the past.