GYMNOPÉDIE

Chapter 05

There was a small pause before she gave a faint nod. "Well, sort of. That's—that's one of the domino effect."

A relieved gasp escaped her lips, followed by a disbelief look plastered on her face. It had been their internal jokes, Gammaliel insisted she was Sherlock, while the blond was the partner, Dr. Watson. Two geeky Ravenclaws, but rather than that, the witch was a walking enigma. So open, welcoming, but she was made of secrets, layers of it within her patched soul. Often, it was hard for Martin to peer and predict what was bothering her mind. And yet, what kind of men who doesn't like a mystery?

"Domino effect?" Martin echoed with an arched eyebrow, cyan eyes inquired for more. The witch nodded, darting her azure eyes up to the clock. Her hand swiftly shoved the box of sweets inside her bag, taking a mental note to share it with Evan Rosier. He went on, "What's the initiating event then?"

"Yes, uhm—." she began with a hitched throat, doubt clouding her mind as she pursed her lips. She emptied eight cups of coffee during the weekend. A yawn escaped from her lips, the only time she could close her eyes these days was when the blond took her to bask in the remaining sunshine down the courtyard. She would sleep on his shoulder, other than that, the rhythm of Gymnopédie would haunt her. His eyes lingered on her like an eagle gazing at its prey, in need of an answer. "It's about my—my mom."

Martin's eyes followed her squirming gesture to leave the great hall. Her body reeked an escape for the said matter, he knew it was a mundane reaction when it involved the witch's mother. His bag slung across his body, the blond followed the witch to exit the great hall.

         "Care to tell me about that?"

Her steps sped, pacing and inanimate. Polished mary jane was harsh against the marbled floor as he followed her pace. Gemma shook her head briskly, "No, not now at least." she answered, beckoning him to climb down the lower east floor. "Come, Marty, we're going to be late."

The first period was Transfiguration.

McKinnon did not continue with Dr. Watson's twenty questions that he adapted from his mother's psychologist career—she thanked High Merlin for gracing her an understanding friend. Relieved sigh escaped her mouth as she settled her bag by her side. The room smelled of blotched ink, old parchment, and cat hair. Imperfect goblets were placed on each table, half mouse half chalice. Some had a tail, squeamish pair of feet, or even snout.

Gazing away, the witch cursed herself for her Merlin's curiosity, and now, it tormented the cat. Memories twirled at the back of her mind as if a magical dam that was built for years was leaking bit by bit. It was a matter of time before the memories dam broke and tormented her soul. She bit on her sugar quill, her mind marveled.

If there was an archangel inside her skull, she wished for one thing: to see her death.

She craved death. It was the unquenched thirst that remained since she was seven—when her logic had unraveled the deceits her family poured on her. White lies, numerous of them, that Gemma could put them down in a list; That one-time Fidelya told the girl, her mother was sick, that her mother was sleeping. That her father missed her mother.

Gammaliel was seven when demons had started whispering it was her fault. Though, Alphard and Fidelya had been clinging on her since that time she misused the double-edged blades. The Merlin's heir was merely an empty collar, a caged soul with pairs of hands wishing her to stay—when all she wanted to do was to return where she came from.