Page 66 of Fortress of Ambrose
“I didn’t ask to be.”
“But youare. And that’s not going to go away until you deal with it.”
I stare out at the rose garden, ruminating over Knox’s words about my grandmother’s garden when she learned my mother wasn’t returning, when she was worried we’d likely be killed.
“I feel like Ihaveto have answers about the future of this House,” I say. “That’s the worst part.”
“It’s suffocating. Having the Sphere’s magic inside me comes with this pressure like I’ve never felt before. No decisions I come up with feel quite right.”
I exhale, hearing him put words to everything I’ve been feeling. My grandmother is dead. Knox thinks I’d make a good leader. I show up here, and Dexler makes it clear she’s beenwaitingfor me to come and take charge. All they’re doing is derailing me from what I came here to do.
“It’s like always being torn between impossible options,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And feeling like a horrible burden on everyone. An heir whose magic cost her mother and grandmother their lives.”
“Where someone is going to get hurt or be disappointed either way. It’s so isolating.” Jordan settles back against his seat. “You must have felt so alone here before.”
I rub a rusted spot on the bench over and over. “Youmust feel so alone now.”
“I’m never truly alone anymore, thanks to your stubbornness.” He winks at me, and sun shines in my soul. “I’m sorry I never really saw you,” he says, turning to face me fully. “I didn’t know what it was like for you to live this way. But I’m starting to understand. Dealing with a fraction of this chaos inside me is so much to bear.”
“Funny, after the time I spent with Beaulah, I feel like I should tell you the same thing.”
“You don’t owe me understanding. You don’t owe me anything. I just regret I didn’t have the heart to see when we were here last time.”
“What use are regrets? What you see now is what matters.”
“What I see now scares me, Quell. Even though it feels right.” He glares at the damaged Gents Wing building.
“Maybe you see what you focus on.”
Our gazes lock, and the questions about my grandmother, the lingering wounds over my mother’s death, the endless worries about Jordan’s life and magic melt away.
He stands, holding out a hand as if he’s asking me to dance, and my heart skips a beat.
“Maybe you’re right.” Loving me comes with a steep cost. But that is not what I see when I look in Jordan’s eyes.
“Let’s see if I can manage to do this.” He pulls at the Sphere’s proper magic, and the air ripples like water around him. The sound of wind rustling trees shifts to the gentle croon of a violin. “No touching. But we can pretend.”
I bite the smile at my lips as I hover my hand over his. He floats his free arm around my body without touching me. His back stiffens, and the light in his eyes returns as he steps to his left. It reminds me of our first time dancing. I follow, sliding to my right. Picturing the sparkly ballroom around us in all its glamour. Then I slide back, then forward. We turn in the dance. It’s a bit stumbly at first, but we find our rhythm as we did the first time we danced. He extends his arm to turn me, I spin and bend backward, imagining he is holding me. I spring back up and dance again toward him, stopping so fast he catches me at the waist for a breath before pulling his touch away. I savor the feeling.
We dance to our self-made music. And I pretend he holds me close to his chest.
We laugh though nothing is particularly funny. And I imagine being curled up with him.
We smile until our cheeks hurt. And I tell myself I could do this forever.
When the sun rises, we collapse back onto the bench, still a breath apart, but I feel closer to him than I have in a long time. It’s not the danceI would have chosen. But it is the dance I needed. There is a song my heart sings, and only he seems to know the words. And I want to hear him sing it over and over. If that’s what love is, then maybe when you love someone, sacrificing for them doesn’t feel like a burden.
Jordan eyes a card in his pocket. And as we sit in silence soaking in the sunrise over the rose garden, my mother and grandmother come to mind. I cross the grass to the latched garden gate. The tangled black roses rotate in my direction, their petals folding under themselves, blooming more radiantly. Jordan is beside me.
“Why do the roses follow me? And why did she dig them all up and replant them?”
When I take the gate lock in hand, it shifts into gold dust. The chains fall to the ground, and the garden’s gate swings open.
“Jordan, I need your help.”
