23 — A Trace Of The Ghost

Lily found me before I found her.

I was still on the bench. The notebook was still in my hands. The moon was higher now, and the courtyard had gone completely dark, and I had been sitting there for so long that my legs had gone numb.

"Clara."

I looked up.

She was standing at the edge of the shadows. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. The way she stood when she was trying very hard not to be angry and failing.

"I've been calling you for ten minutes."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just tell me why you're sitting in the dark with a book."

I looked down at the notebook.

"It's not a book."

"It looks like a book."

"It's a record. Of the Silent Spell."

She was quiet for a moment.

Then she sat down next to me.

"Start from the beginning."

So I did.

I told her about Isabelle. About the ceremony. About the bench and the notebook and the twenty years of research. I told her about the Sleepwalker. About the single soul that cycles through bodies. About the power that lives in dreams. About the lock I had built without knowing I was building it.

I told her everything.

When I finished, she didn't say anything for a long time.

Then she said: "You almost killed someone."

"Yes."

"Who?"

I closed my eyes.

"A princess. Elleanor. Last year. During the tournament."

Lily's breath caught.

"Princess Elleanor?"

"The one and only."

"Clara—"

"I don't remember it. That's the thing. I don't remember any of it. Isabelle said I locked the memory away with the power. She said I can't open one without opening the other."

Lily was quiet again.

Then she said: "What do you remember?"

"I remember the tournament. I remember standing on the platform. I remember the crowd. I remember the moment before I cast. And then—nothing. Blank. The next thing I remember is being on the ground and everyone staring at me and Elleanor being carried off on a stretcher."

"You never told me."

"I never told anyone."

"You told me your magic disappeared."

"It did."

"Clara, your magic didn't disappear. You—"

"I know."

"Then why didn't you—"

"Because I didn't know." I opened my eyes. "I didn't know I almost killed her. I didn't know I had suppressed anything. I just knew that one day I could cast and the next day I couldn't. I thought it was the same thing as losing it. I thought I was broken. I thought—"

I stopped.

"You thought what?"

"I thought it was my fault. That I was just. That I had finally proven everyone right. That the Potential Witch was exactly what they said she was. A girl who was supposed to be something and couldn't even cast a basic spell."

Lily stared at me.

"That's what you've been carrying for a year."

"Yes."

"That's why you never talked about the tournament."

"Yes."

"That's why you froze whenever someone mentioned magic."

"Yes."

"Clara."

"What."

She reached over and took the notebook out of my hands. She set it on the bench beside her. Then she took both of my hands in hers.

"You almost killed a princess," she said.

"Yes."

"And then you locked away your own power because you were so scared of what you'd done that you'd rather be magicless than remember it."

"Yes."

"And then you spent a year pretending it was just bad luck."

"Yes."

"And then you told no one. Not me. Not Myra. Not anyone."

"Yes."

She squeezed my hands.

"You're an idiot."

"I know."

"The biggest idiot."

"I know."

"The most infuriating, self-destructive, pig-headed—"

"Lily."

"What."

"Thank you."

She stopped.

For a moment, neither of us said anything. The courtyard was quiet. The candles in the windows had burned down to embers. Somewhere in the distance, a night bird called.

Then Lily let go of my hands and stood up.

"Come on," she said.

"Where?"

"Back to the dorm. You need to sleep."

"I can't sleep."

"That's the point."

I stared at her.

"What?"

"Isabelle said the power lives in your dreams. She said you have to sleep to unlock it. So you're going to sleep."

"Lily, I can't just—"

"You can. And you will. Because if you don't, you're going to keep sitting on this bench until morning, and then you're going to go to class, and then you're going to pretend nothing happened, and I'm going to have to watch you do it."

I didn't answer.

"I've been watching you do it for a year," she said. "I'm not doing it anymore."

She held out her hand.

I took it.

The dorm was quiet.

Myra was already asleep on the windowsill. She was curled into a small ball with her tail wrapped around her, and her breathing was slow and even, and she looked younger than she ever looked when she was awake.

Lily pulled back the blankets on my bed.

"Get in."

"I'm not a child."

"Get in."

I got in.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. Not on top of the blankets. On the edge. Like she was planning to stay.

"You don't have to watch me sleep."

"I know."

"So why are you sitting there?"

She didn't answer.

She just looked at me.

And for a moment, in the dim light of the dorm, I saw something in her face that I hadn't seen before. Something that wasn't anger, and wasn't pity, and wasn't even concern. Something softer. Something that looked almost like fear.

"You scared me," she said quietly. "When you accused Celine. When you said the words. When you told me about your parents. When you told me about Elleanor. You scared me."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"Then what do you want me to say?"

She thought about it.

"Nothing," she said finally. "Just sleep."

I closed my eyes.

The last thing I heard before I drifted off was her voice, very quiet, very far away.

"Come back."

I don't remember the dream.

That's the strange part. I know I slept. I know I dreamed. I know I wandered through something — some place, some space, some version of the world that existed only inside my own head. But when I woke up, the memory was already gone. Not forgotten. Gone. Like it had never been there at all.

The morning light was coming through the window.

Lily was still sitting on the edge of the bed. Her head had fallen forward and her eyes were closed, and her hand was resting on the blanket near mine.

I didn't wake her.

I lay there in the half-light, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember anything about the dream. Anything at all.

There was nothing. Just a blank. Just the feeling that something had happened. Something that mattered. Something that had changed.

Myra stirred on the windowsill.

She lifted her head, blinked sleepily, and looked at me.

Her ears perked up.

"Master," she said.

"Yeah?"

"You were talking in your sleep."

I sat up.

"What?"

"You were talking. In your sleep. You said something."

My heart was beating faster than it should have been.

"What did I say?"

She tilted her head.

"You said—" she paused, trying to remember. "You said she's not what she thinks she is."

I stared at her.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

I lay back down.

Lily was still asleep. The sun was rising. Somewhere outside, the academy bell was ringing.

I didn't know what the dream had been.

I didn't know what I had said.

But something was different. I could feel it. Something in my chest. Something that hadn't been there yesterday.

Something that felt almost like power.