Crescent

21

Silence rarely consumed the Reite house. Vera's mother was prone to singing haunting lullabies to herself while she partook in late night embroidery, but there was also always the subtle bustling of household staff in the wee hours of the morning as they prepared for the day. When Wyn and Silas were busy with Council duties, their voices would drift from the study down the hall, a cacophonous symphony of ancient and scholarly drivel.

That night, however, even the walls refused to speak. The moon hung low over the garden, and the world basked in its silver light, but the fractured Reite household did not even have a whisper to share anymore.

Vera opened the door to her bedroom slowly to avoid the creak of the hinges. The hall was empty, and the entryway below was enveloped in darkness. Nothing moved, nothing spoke. Her father was right—with Wyn and Silas away, the whole house had gone quiet. A subtle smile pulled at her lips, and she tucked the gold key into her dress and smoothed her pinafore to hide its shape. The vial of ichor slid perfectly into a pocket in her skirt, and it was quickly hidden beneath the folds. The plain linen dress had hung nearly forgotten in the back of her closet due to its frayed hem and unflattering navy color, but its pockets rivaled that of every other garment she owned.

At least, with her two traditional overcoats destroyed. She didn't dare ask after the first, afraid to hear Eileen had been unable to repair it or had given up on the project entirely in Vera's absence. And the second, the one she had worn into the west woods, the one that endured so much hardship, had turned crimson. It was hardly Reite blue anymore, and the sight of it left a foul taste on her tongue.

Something cold hummed against her ear—she touched the crescent earring delicately, its thin chain and tiny star charm still intact despite everything. Though it left behind an eerie static in her mind where there should have been a thread of arcane, it was proof enough that everything was real. Proof that the light could be hers.

With the door standing open, she paused to fetch her sword from where she had left it propped against her nightstand beside her now empty bag. It slid easily into the sheath at her waist, and the weight of it hanging from her belt provided a comforting presence. The moon at her back beckoned her to the garden and the forest beyond, but she left through the open door and closed it softly behind her, determined not to prove her foolishness true again.

As it disappeared, however, the moonlight seemed dimmer than before. For a heartbeat, it appeared as though it had already begun to wane again, but she couldn't bear a second glance. Not when she had no way to explain why it had returned at all—even if only for the length of time it took her to wash up and change.

Somewhere beyond the confines of her room, answers awaited her. If Wyn wouldn't answer her outright, and her father had become too afraid to voice the truth in her presence, she could only set her sights on one person. He was the only one that had told her anything, though it was like pulling teeth to convince him he owed her any sort of explanation. He was ornery, but he was open with her, and that betrayal stung.

Vera touched her earring again as a sliver of yearning slid up her spine, but nothing answered her silent plea. She could only hope the return of the moon and the emptiness inside her weren't signs that Zeno had truly died.

His silent scream, his twisted, pained expression, the bullet wound in his chest—every horrific sight from the last time she had seen him flashed through her mind again and turned her insides to ice. Magic was his greatest talent, his reason for being, and it had been the thing to bring him to his knees. Despite herself, it choked her to dwell on what had become of him. She should have known better than to care after he had broken his word—after his cowardly underhanded attempt to escape—yet something deep down squirmed with pity when she recalled who had destroyed him.