Page 45 of Ocean of Ink
“I promise I won’t make a habit of it,” Finn said, but the expression on his face negated his words.
“I don’t believe you.”
“You shouldn’t.” He pushed off the bed frame and shot Castien one more lopsided smile on his way out. “I know you’re dying to read it, so I’ll leave you be. I expect a gift in return in the form of a genuine statement of gratitude.”
Castien shook his head, a laugh escaping him. “Go bother someone else.”
“As you wish, High Inquisitor.”
Finn slipped out of the door, bid Heathford a good evening, and was gone.
Castien sat on the edge of his bed, heart pounding as he stared at the journal in his lap. Once he opened it, there would be no turning back. He would read every page multiple times. It would be as much his as it was Wren’s. His eyes strayed to the various journals and pieces of parchment on his desk. If someone stole his writings, he’d be both furious and devastated. There was something about parchment and ink that made one divulge matters of the heart with abandon.
It was wrong of Finn to take this from her. Investigation or not, it was an invasion of privacy. Wren would now walk around with the vulnerable feeling that someone knew parts of herself she had only planned on the covers of this book seeing. But what’s done was done, and the journal had found itself in Castien’s hands. All that was left to do was make use of it.
So, conscience painted in shades of grey, he opened to the first page and began.
Year 813, Week 27, Mira (Eleven years old)
Heron says that journaling will help me deal with all that has happened. I don’t know why he thinks that more writing will help. I am so tired of writing. It makes my hand cramp and my eyes hurt. But it is the way to keep my Curse a secret. I will never call it a Gift. Nothing that brings so much pain can be a gift.
Year 815, Week 34, Adira (Thirteen years old)
I had another night terror. I won’t tell Heron this time. He thinks I’ve been doing so well. I don’t want him to know that I still think about it. About the Incident and all that came before it. I believe I will never be free from the memories. I am forever tainted. A stained garment with no hope of being washed clean.
Year 817, Week 17, Marina (Fifteen years old)
It is foolish to dream while trapped in a nightmare. And yet, I cannot help but do so as I consider my future. Is it possible that I will be allowed some measure of happiness in this life? Would I be capable of tasting joy in the wake of all my pain and grief?
Heron says that hope is the anchor that helps you weather the storms of life. I used to believe him, but lately hope feels much more like a blade without a handle. I cannot grasp it without earning a scar.
I am made of scars.
Year 819, Week 68, Adira (Seventeen years old)
Rowan Cove, the Duke of Valorshire, asked for my hand in the drawing room today. I could not meet his eyes. I could only stare into the ones of the little girl in the portrait above the hearth. Rowan is handsome, kind, and wealthy. Many of the women on the Wild Holm desire him.
But I do not, because I am stuck in the painting. I am ten years old and ruined for trusting a man. I am ten years old and crying in my brother’s bloodstained arms. I am ten years old and crippled beneath a Curse that makes me feel my brother’s sorrow in my bones.
It has been seven years, but time has frozen like the lily pond in winter. I am forever the girl in the painting, screaming and screaming yet not making a sound.
Year 821, Week 18, Cordelia (Nineteen years old)
Today, I stood on the Salt Hills and contemplated jumping into the Tides. The raging abyss called to me in a more welcoming tone than my mother. She wants me to marry, but I cannot. The very notion is paralyzing. I will sooner give myself to the depths than go through that shame.
Only Heron understands, but he isn’t here. I knew that him going to the academy would be hard, but the pain of missing him is too much. The knowledge of his love is the only thing tethering me to this plane. If it weren’t for him, I’d be at the bottom of the Tides.
Year 822, Week 33, Avisa (Twenty years old)
Heron is gone. Even as I write the words, I cannot comprehend them. They exist outside of my understanding, for I have never known a world without him in it. My every breath is a blade sawing through my chest.
I want to die. I want to die. I want to die. I want to–
I will live. For him. I will walk through this pain with grief as my only friend, because my best friend was stolen from me. And I will find out who did this to him. They shall meet death by my hand. In their final moments, may they rue the day they spilled Kalyxi blood.
The hearth crackled to life as Heathford stoked the fire. An amber glow brightened the page Castien was on once more. Heathford’s shadow stretched across the floor as he walked back into the hall. Castien had instructed the butler to go to bed some time ago, but the man insisted on staying until Castien retired.
Castien had been hunched over Wren’s journal near the warmth of the fire for hours. Long enough to go through it more than once. She hadn’t kept a log of every day of her life, but seemed to go to the journal when her heart was bleeding. The journal was three hundred and seven pages in total. Two hundred and twenty two of those had been filled, a significant amount of which in the last few days. Wren’s investigation notes had replaced her personal thoughts in her recent entries.
