Page 68 of Shadows in Bloom

But that thought is quickly squashed when I enter the classroom seconds later to discover she’s not here. I even begrudgingly notice Trinity looking around with a frown, clearly as much at a loss as I am.

Interesting…

Stewing on this, I make a beeline straight for my usual spot in the back row, right next to the window. No one fights me for it, nor does anyone seem to be in any hurry to take the desk buddied up with mine. If anything, they scramble to fill the spots as far away from me as possible, until they have no other choice but to draw closer to me.

Rolling my lips together, I open my brand new composition book to the first page, pop the cap off my pen with my teeth, and jot down today’s date.

Did she go see the nurse, perhaps? Her hand…maybe she injured herself.

It doesn’t explain her fear though. Unless, maybe she developed some sort of aversion to blood in the last few years. She was never the queasy type, but I could’ve also sworn she wasn’t the betraying type either, so…

I’m halfway through underlining the date when the bell rings, signaling the start of class.

And that’s when I sense her. Not just in the abstract sense, but literally. Like a burning sensation racing across my chest, so unexpected, I slap a hand right under my collarbone.

A split-second later, Winifred blows into the room, startling a stern “Miss Chapel” from Sister Christine. My pen hovers just above the page, my eyes lifting to look through my lashes and the loose black curls dangling around my eyes.

At the front of the room, wearing an oversized brown knit sweater that is straight up fugly if I’m being honest, Winifred rocks to a stop, and turns just enough to give a pathetic, eye-roll worthy dip of her head. “Apologies, Sister.” Her voice is soft, but because the room has gone utterly silent, I hear her just fine—we all do—when she says, “Got tied up in the restroom.”

The second the words leave her mouth, her face flushes beet-red. Sister Christine arches a thin gray brow that practically disappears under the white band of her veil.

“Very well. You’ll have to take the seat in the back next to Miss St. Maud.”

I straighten at that. Wait, what?

Sure enough, when I look around, every other seat but the one next to me is occupied.

Winifred’s gaze flits my way, widening, before she quickly turns back to Sister Christine. Spine rigid, face slackened with horror, she says, “But?—”

The nun is already turning away, dismissing her. “Please make haste so we can get started.”

A moment passes before Winifred seems able to unglue her feet.

“Yes, Sister,” I somehow hear over the white-noise of murmurs now filling the room. Turning, Winifred shuffles down the aisle, sharing a wordless look with Trinity who mouths what looks like an apology.

There’s a loud thwack of a rod hitting the desk at the front of the room, followed by Sister Christine’s barked, “Enough!”

A hush falls over the room as all eyes follow Winifred’s walk of shame.

I huff a short laugh, and drop my gaze to my notebook, ignoring the sizzling anticipation stirring in my chest.

Winifred’s sinking dread as she draws closer is a tangible thing I feel echoed in my own stomach when that thing inside me perks to attention—peeking out from wherever she hides when I have no choice but to visit hallowed grounds. Which, in a town like this, steeped in the Old Ways, happens more often than not. And is probably the only reason I haven’t been completely taken over…

“Yet.”

I still at the voice ringing out sharply, coldly in my head.

My throat swells with unease. School is supposed to be the one place I get a break—the one place I can count on to offer me some semblance of…protection. Sanity.

It’s why I’ve been so adamantly against dropping out, despite how much it would please my teachers and peers to be rid of me.

The hardwood floor creaks, followed by the faint scraping squeal of metal chair legs as Winifred gets settled. A peek from the corner of my eye shows her sitting ramrod straight as far away from me as possible, pointedly facing the front of the room. The normally soft slope of her jaw sharpened enough to cut glass.

I only half pay attention as Sister Christine rattles off names to take attendance. A pointless use of everybody’s time, seeing as it would be quite obvious if anyone was missing. Being that there are exactly sixteen desks for sixteen seniors.

When her name is called, Winifred’s “Present” from next to me is noticeably strained..

Mine, several names later, is so soft I doubt anyone heard it, except for maybe my reluctant neighbor, who stiffens impossibly more. Unsurprisingly, Sister Christine rushes right to the next name.

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