“Yes, you are,” he says. “This exercise is a necessary part of your training. You’re ready for it.”
“It’s not up to you.” I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder.
“We aren’t done here,” he says, each word strained and tight, ready to snap. Everyone is watching us; even Mr. Donovan doesn’t look away.
I don’t say anything as I pass him and leave the garden.
“This is a failing grade,” he calls, his last attempt to bring me back.
“Then fail me,” I say without slowing my steps.
For a moment, it’s freeing, acting as if I don’t care, acting as if the consequences don’t matter to me. And maybe they don’t, not when it comes to Mr. Burrows.
But I have a very powerful, very volatile magic inside me, and I have to figure out how to live with it.
And if I can’t, I must decide if I can live without it.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“In the summer, I fall in love with every soul I come across, even if just for a moment.”
—A Season for Everything
Mr. Burrows calls me into his office first thing the next morning. Ms. Suntile is present as well, and he says that I must make up the session I walked out on. He tells me I wasted everyone’s time and that I owe Mr. Donovan an apology.
When Ms. Suntile interrupts him to ask why I left, I tell her the truth: I didn’t feel ready. I didn’t feel in control.
And to my amazement and gratitude, she says I did the right thing, that I should never be forced to use my magic if it feels erratic in any way. She says they’ve pushed me hard this year and that perhaps I’m due a break.
I’m not sure why she has come to my defense so strongly, but it matters more than she knows. She says I can make up the group session after the eclipse and that I don’t have to worry about it until then.
And while I don’t know how to stop worrying about it, I’m grateful for the days off from training and the days away from Mr. Burrows.
I walk back to my cabin feeling a little lighter than I did when I woke up this morning, and that’s something. It’s small, but it’s something.
When I get inside, I change out of my jeans and put on leggings and a tank top. I lace up my running shoes and take a long drink of water. I rarely exercise in autumn or winter, favoring late nights and long novels to early mornings and cold temperatures. But spring and summer drive me outside, and I step out of my cabin and run. Run from the image of Sang’s face when I left his apartment; run from the memory of his mouth on mine; run from the way the world slowed and my mind stilled when I was with him.
Run from everything.
It’s a warm morning, and I start sweating right away. I pass the houses and the dial, the library and the dining hall, and weave through the gardens until I’m out past the control field and see the trails in the distance.
Birds are chirping, and a slight breeze moves through the trees, rustling the branches. My hair is in a ponytail, frizzy curls hitting my back as I go. I wish my legs could carry me faster, could outrun my mind.
My breaths are even and deep, getting heavier by the time I finally reach the trail that’s become my lifeline.
I run along the path, my legs burning and my lungs heaving as I climb the mountainside. I jump over rocks and exposed roots, getting higher and higher.
When I finally reach the meadow, I stop and catch my breath. It gets denser every day, new wildflowers popping up, and I know they must be from Sang because of how quickly they appear, how fast the meadow changes.
I walk to the birch tree, careful not to crush any flowers, and sit in the dirt surrounding its trunk. I lean against it and close my eyes, listening to the way the leaves move with the wind, the way my breath mixes with the sounds of nature.
And then, because I can’t help it, because I miss Sang so much it physically hurts, I get on my knees and press my hands into the dirt, feeding all my emotions to the soil. A single spotted wintergreen rises up from the ground, a bright-green stem giving way to tiny white flowers. They open up in unison and sigh as if perfectly content.
Spotted wintergreens are the flowers that grow from longing.
It is the only flower in the dirt surrounding the birch, and I know he’ll see it.
I check my watch and slowly stand. I stretch my legs and roll my shoulders, getting ready for the run back to my cabin. I look at the wintergreen once more, then step through the meadow until I’m back under the cover of the trees.
I begin my descent, but the sound of a twig breaking in the distance stops me. I know I should keep going, should run down the trail and not risk being seen, but I can’t. I slowly turn and tuck myself behind a large evergreen, watching the meadow.
Sang appears in the distance, his bag over his shoulder. He walks around the far end of the meadow and through to the birch, our birch, and sets his bag on the dirt. He pushes his palm against the trunk of the tree and exhales, so heavy I can hear it from here.
He turns and stops, his head tilted toward the ground. He stands there for several seconds, staring at the spotted wintergreen, then crouches beside it and touches the petals. He stands up and looks around, and I duck behind the evergreen, out of sight.
My heart pounds, my legs aching to go to him.
But I stay where I am.
I
