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And now, as I lie awake, staring at the ceiling with Alastair’s warm breath coasting along my collarbone, his arm slung low on my hips as he nuzzles into me, I think back to the sound I’d heard while he was taking a curiously long time to procure our tea.

Journal Entry

Christmas Day

I thought I could save her.

Every time I touched her, I told myself I was keeping her safe—from Dinwoodie, from the whispers, from the rot that seeps through these walls. But perhaps safety was never mine to give.

The fire burns hotter now. The air tastes strange. I can’t tell if it’s warmth filling my lungs or something else.

I focus on her. Only ever her.

She’s so beautiful when she sleeps, breaths shallow, chest rising softly, and I know it is my presence alone that has allowed her this simple pleasure—I almost forget that we might not wake.

If anyone finds this, tell her I never meant for love to become a kind of dying.

Hopeful for a tomorrow,

Alastair

Chapter 10

Christmas Day

Calista

Iwake in a cocoon of warmth, Alastair’s body coiled around mine, his duvet drawn up to my chin and the sheets tangled between my legs.

And for a few blissful seconds, I don’t think about the relentless tragedies that have struck this university, or the fear that gripped my soul last night.

But then reality strikes, thrumming through me from the center of my chest, out to my limbs until my body is trembling and humming with nervous energy. Unease claws at me from the inside, fighting its way out as the storm hammers on, beating against the windows as if urging us to flee the unholy sanctity of this place.

A place where people die and secrets lie.

A place we may never escape.

Alastair shifts behind me, nuzzling his nose into the crook of my neck as he hums, tightening his grip around my waist. “Merry Christmas, my ruin,” he murmurs, his voice sleep-laden and groggy.

He presses open-mouthed kisses along the column of my neck.

“Merry Christmas,” I tell him, melting into his embrace, my lids growing heavy once more and rather than fight the fog clouding my mind, I let sleep drag me back under. At least in my dreams, it’s only my own mind that can haunt me rather than what lurks in the shadows of these halls.

What feels like hours but may have been mere minutes have passed. Candlelight flickers against the ceiling, casting dancing shadows that speak of something more sinister. I can still feel the remnants of the fog in my mind, the lingering warmth of Alastair’s arms fading as I blink into the dim light.

I lower the covers, taking my time to sit up as I adjust to the light. It’s that odd in between where the clouds block out any of the sun's rays, but the light is somehow still too oppressive, bouncing off the snow-covered ground, causing me to squint as I pat the empty space beside me in search of the man who makes me feel whole and secure.

I come up empty, my hand landing on sheets that have grown cold, and nothing more. I peer up, my eyes landing on him. He’s standing by the window, half-dressed, eyes haunted, fingers twitching as he presses them against the glass. He doesn’t notice me at first, only staring out at the storm as though he’s calculating every possible threat outside, though I know there is none he can control.

A sudden bang makes me flinch. Another. And another. My heart hammers, chest tight. The sounds in the hallway are growing louder until the banging arrives at our door. Our gazes swing toward one another, eyes growing wide.

The bangs resume, louder, more insistent, echoing off the stone walls and sending shivers down my spine. A voice cuts through the noise, harsh and high-pitched, carrying down the corridor. “Everyone! Grab your blankets and pillows. Head to the dining hall now! No exceptions!” It’s the Headmaster, frantic and paranoid, his voice cracking under the strain. He bangs on doors as he makes his rounds, demanding compliance, each knock reverberating in my skull, echoing the pounding of frantic footsteps in the hall.

“Calista,” Alastair whispers as I stare dumbly at the door, unmoving. There’s a dip in the mattress beside me, warmth suddenly surrounding me and then his palms come up to cup my cheeks. His expression is pinched and earnest, beard grown out over the last few days, brows pulled taught. “No matter what happens, we are making it out of here. Do you understand me?” he asks and I fear that I do not.

I shake my head. “The roads are blocked—” I begin, but he presses his forehead to mine, breathing me in and my words get lodged in my throat.

“No, my ruin,” he murmurs. “Not now. Now, we go to the dining hall and do as we’re told. We survive this moment. We remain visible.”