“So,” he spoke brusquely, arching a brow in silent question, “are you ready to begin?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I was uncomfortably aware of the thundering pace of my heartbeat, the clamminess of the palms that I pressed to my lap. “How exactly will this work?” I wanted to ask, but as he approached, the question died in my throat.
“It won’t be pleasant.” He leaned toward me, close enough that I could make out each individual lash shadowing his brows. Trace the flecks of gold that touched his irises.
How had I failed to notice those luminous specks before?
He reached for my arm, and I instinctively pulled away. “What are you doing?”
“We need to maintain skin contact in order for the glamour to work,” he explained.
“Oh,” I said, feeling my face heat. I held out my arm awkwardly, and my muscles stiffened as his fingers slid around my cold wrist.
“You’ll need to try to resist giving in to the emotions that come up. Try to fight off the glamour, just like you did with Devereaux.”
Panic hit me like an oncoming train. “But—I don’t know how. I couldn’t shake off Devereaux’s control,” I protested. Indeed, that night in the Tusk, he’d manipulated my limbs with the ease of a puppeteer.
Casimir’s grip on my wrist tightened. “Remind yourself that what I show you isn’t real,” he urged. “Banish the vision and push me out of your head.”
My heart thudded so noisily I was sure he could hear it. I fought the urge to tear my wrist from his hold. Instead, I asked, “How will I know when it starts?”
He huffed a laugh in response. “You’ll know, Farrow. Just trust me.”
I wanted to trust him. But panic and my instinct for self-preservation took over, smothering my earnest desire. My lids shuttered, and I was swallowed by darkness.
The chapel was dead quiet. I could still feel Casimir’s hand on my wrist. I waited for something to happen.
The sound of a door bursting open, and then a sudden light pouring into the room, breaking into my cloak of darkness. The familiar scent of lavender in my sheets told me I was in my dormitory.
“I’m not going to let you rot in that bed another second, Arden,” came August’s brusque voice from close by.
In response, I burrowed deeper into my cave of blankets. But August was not to be dissuaded.
“Up, please!” he sang, and the next moment I cringed as a cold rush of air assaulted my body.
“Go away,” I mumbled feebly, attempting to curl into a ball to warm myself.
“Nope, not going to let you mope any longer. You’ve already missed an entire week of classes, and they’re going to expel you if you don’t get it together.” Then, in a gentler voice, he added, “I’m tired of watching you waste away. Malcolm wouldn’t have wanted this.”
That did it. I bolted upright and glared up at August. To his credit, he did not show a glimmer of surprise as he took in my red-rimmed, puffy eyes and unkempt hair.
“Fuck off,” I growled, grasping at the stolen blankets. But August was too quick. Yanking them out of the way and tossing them on Gwen’s bed, he turned to frown down at my shivering form.
“You’re not getting those blankets back until you eat something,” he said, gesturing to the fresh plate of eggs and toast sitting on my desk.
Huddling in the cold, I shot him the most withering glare I could muster, which only made him smirk in amusement. He leaned in closer. “Is that the best you’ve got?”
The Lost Week, as Gwen later dubbed it, began on the morning of January seventh, the one-year anniversary of my father’s death. For one week, I spoke to no one, buried myself under my covers, and nestled in the sanctuary of my grief. For one week, I refused to attend classes or take meals. For one week, I endured Gwen’s concerned glances and ignored the trays of buttered toast and coffee she left on my desk. I refused visitors and ignored letters from August, which were delivered with increasing frequency and urgency. For one week, I neglected to bathe or nourish myself, determined to let my external body mirror the hollowness I felt inside. On the ninth day of my self-imposed sentence, August decided he’d had enough.
“You have to eat, Arden.”
Now that I had no blankets to insulate me from the world, the heavenly smell of buttered toast wafted into my nose, and my stomach growled mutinously. Then my eyes fell on the steaming mug of hot chocolate beside the toast. August caught the expression that flashed across my face, and his smile broadened.
Damn him.August’s methods were cruel but effective. He knew I was deliriously famished and wouldn’t be able to resist hot chocolate. Tentatively, I reached for the mug and took a small sip. Rich, creamy flavor burst on my tongue, eliciting an involuntary moan from my throat. Gods, he’d even topped the hot chocolate with whipped cream. After that, the battle was over. August watched with a slightly smug expression as I tore off a piece of toast with my teeth.
“Now that you’re back in the land of the living,” he began with a smile, “We can begin phase two.”
I swallowed, nearly choking on a bite of toast. “Phase two?” I asked warily.