Page 6

Years ago, when I first joined the university staff, he was relentless—cornering me after lectures, slipping invitations beneath my bedroom door, pressing for suppers and time spent alone I never wanted. My refusals were never enough. Eventually, I learned to wield my wit like a blade until he relented.

Or at least, he pretended to.

Now, his attention has slithered elsewhere. Before I can cut him down, Dinwoodie clasps Ophelia’s hand in his, bile rising up my throat. His smile sharpens, and when he asks her to join him sometime for a drink, she accepts without hesitation. The agreement slips from her lips like an afterthought, yet it twists something low in my belly.

I bite back my protest. Who am I to judge? I’ve already crossed boundaries in ways that leave me trembling in Alastair’s presence.

“Quite the appetite this evening, Ms. Ravenna?” Ophelia jokes, unaware of my unease, glancing between my face and my tray, which I have piled high with two servings of every item that looked halfway decent.

I welcome the easy shift in conversation. “It isn’t my fault the young man dishing out the sides has a crush on me,” I say, waggling my brows. I don’t miss the way Alastair’s brow quirks, his gaze shooting over my shoulder toward the man in question, before landing back on me.

“Well, of course not. Doesn’t everyone?” Ophelia answers with a playful lilt to her voice.

My gaze snaps across the table to Alastair, praying that my eyes convey a message of, “Don’t you dare speak a word,” just as he opens his mouth to say something stupid and charming, I’m sure. But before he gets the chance, Headmaster Whitmore steps out into the center of the room, clearing his throat in a manner that has the whole room silencing themselves.

His appearance strikes me as odd for a man who tends to be dressed in well-pressed suits without so much as a scuff atop his shoes. Now, he stands in the center of the massive stone-walled room, flanked by long banquet-style tables, candelabras hanging from the ceiling rafters and quite possibly the largest Christmas tree I’ve ever seen leering just over his shoulder. His hair is a mess, as if he’s spent all day swiping his fingers through the unruly gray strands.

“I come bearing some unfortunate news that may be difficult for some of you to hear,” he announces, his deep voice booming against the walls. A chill races down my spine, and Alastair must notice because he adjusts himself in his seat, pressing the side of his ankle to mine in a silent bid to comfort me. The ghost of his touch lingers, an anchor in the storm brewing inside me. “As many of you might have noticed, Professor Chadwick did not make it to his class today. This caused some concern as he has never been late, let alone missed a class, in his fifty-year tenure here at Nocturne Frost University. After trying other methods of contacting him without any luck, he was later found to have passed away in his sleep.”

A collective gasp resounds through the large room, which feels suffocating beneath the weight of this revelation. There’s a beat of quiet before everything shifts from stunned silence to disbelief.

The dining hall roars with the voices of students who loved him and faculty who he’d treated more like family than friends, myself included. And through it all, the only thing I can hear is a dreadful pounding, as though my very veins are rebelling against the news.

Once again, I’m finding myself upset over the loss of someone I should never have loved to begin with. Love has ever been the herald of my undoing.

I’d known better, and look where it had gotten me.

“How sad,” Ophelia murmurs beside me.

“The man was eighty-six, it was his time. May he rest in peace,” Professor Dinwoodie says, his cold, graceless words slithering across the table.

I push up from my seat. “I think I need to lie down,” I explain, strutting away to deal with the grief the only way I know how: alone.

Journal Entry

The leaves on the trees have all turned colors, each of the vibrant shades of yellow, orange, and red a reflection of Calista’s presence—something I’ve grown rather fond of since she waltzed her way into my life as if she weren’t about to steal the breath straight from my lungs and leave me panting for more. Which, I suppose, is an indication that “fond” is the incorrect word to describe my feelings for her.

She is an obsession. One I hope to drown in some day.

I find myself leaving my windows open in her absence, a soothing reminder of her existence like a balm to my soul.

It’s been three years since her arrival to Nocturne Frost, and I still find myself thanking the gods every day for her decision to move here. Even if what she’s shared with me about her late husband had created the worst of circumstances.

She shares much more of herself with me now, telling me all about her day and letting me in on secrets from her past. Though I feel there’s something she’s hiding. Maybe a truth she thinks would be better off left as a skeleton in her closet than to be brought out into the light where the rot could be seen and smelled.

One day she’ll share every piece of herself with me. I can see the love she carries in her eyes, it’s there every time she gazes into mine, sure to find the same reflected back to her. But it isn’t enough just yet. She needs further assurances that I won’t turn out to be a fraud like her husband had. And so I’ll wait, building her trust with every word past my lips and each of my actions.

For two souls who love literature as much as we, I am not dense enough to believe that words hold more value than the actions that follow.

Until tomorrow,

Alastair

Chapter 3

One Week Until Christmas

Calista