Page 35 of House of Hearts
He hums in approval.
“How much does the rest of the group actually care about Emoree?” I ask softly. “It almost feels like she’s another face on the wall and not, y’know,Emoree.”
Calvin considers that as he looks back out to the lake. Water lilies reflect in his pupils, and I have a feeling that if I got even closer, I might be able to peer directly into the heart of him. “Em was a Card member, sure, but she was more than that. She was a friend, and what happened last year is something that none of us will get over for a long time. For Tripp and my sister, at least, they have a funny way of showing their grief, but if there’s one thing that I’ve learned, it’s that everyone has their own way to mourn.”
I nod. I learned that the hard way.
Before I can say another word, Calvin shrugs off his crested jacket and flings it my way. It lands in a confusing heap in my arms, and I can’t help the part of me that wonders if it will smell like him. Warm and sharp like spiced cider. “Huh?”
“I’m tired of hearing your teeth chatter,” he says offhandedly. “Plus, you’re no help to any of us if you get sick.”
“Wow, chivalry isn’t dead after all,” I deadpan. My eyes dart between him and the red blazer and then back up again. “Y-you know it’s a myth that cold weather gets you sick, right?”
He shrugs lazily and makes a move to swipe it back. “If you’re not cold, I’ll take it back—”
“Buuut on second thought, clearly curses and ghosts exist, so s-screw science. I’m freezing.” Before he can reclaim it, I burrow into the jacket and relish in his residual body heat. The sleeves are comically long on me, and he snorts at the sight.
“You can give it back to me tomorrow at our first official club meeting. Five o’clock. I trust you know where to go by now,” he teases, already walking away from me down the pier.
I wrap the jacket tighter against my shoulders. I was right; it does smell like him.
I clench my fists at my sides and call him with a taunting “Lockwell.”
“Hmm?” he asks, twisting to look back at me over his shoulder.
“This was the worst first date I’ve ever had.”
Dear Diary,
No one can know what I have created.
My grimoire is the child of several texts from my father’s rare book collection and my own fiendish imagination. Night after night, I have worked diligently to scour through old Latin and keep my curses under lock and key. Not only would this secret be my societal undoing, but I fear the reactions of my family if they knew.
Mother would be devastated. Father, irate. And Helen? There was a time growing up when we were inseparable. We still wear the same lockets slung around our throats and whisper to one another during Father’s “episodes,” but we are no longer close by any stretch of the imagination. Still, I fear she would be hurt to know of the secrets I am keeping now.
None of that is enough to stop me.
Last night, I began my first spell to bind the maze to myself. With my father’s vigilant eye and my sister’s meddling, I need a place where I’m free to meet with Oleander without the nagging sensation of beingwatched. No one can follow me here unless I wish to be found. The maze will be my own corner away from the world.
The ritual was simple enough to perform. Under the pregnant swell of the moon, I slashed my palm against the hedges and watched, horrified and enraptured, as they lapped my blood up like a newborn calf. There was no immediate change—the world didn’t burn blue with the tinge of black magic and the wind didn’t whistle my name. Nothing happened, and yet there was that intrinsicknowingthat it had worked.
I knew then that the maze was mine, and I knew it always would be.
—Anastasia Hart
12
I’ve been at this school for ten days, and what do I have to show for it?
A newfound fear of ghosts.
Several concerned texts from my mother (Are you making friends? When are you coming home again? Do you know where I could’ve put my keys?).
And a roommate giving me the silent treatment.
“Birdie, can you pass me the pepper?” I ask, pointing down at my already perfectly seasoned lamb chop. Flavor be damned, I’ll bury my tray in salt and pepper if it means forcing her to look in my direction.
Emoree was never the “simmering, quiet rage” type. She was blubbering tears and rambling word-vomit, slammed doors and balled notes thrown at my back. Meanwhile, Birdie acts like I never opened my mouth in the first place.
