ANATOMY OF A GIRL

december 21st, 1808

Location:
Cara'cius, Svet'dmai

Calantha woke in the forest, covered in ash. With her vision hazy, she stumbled home, tripping on fallen branches and overgrown roots. She was lucky enough to find the front hall of her home empty. Light filtered onto the dull wooden furnishings, birds sang a gentle song beyond the window. She felt a sting in her chest at the thought that no one had noticed her absence. Not even her brother.

Dragging herself to her bed, she felt what might have been a twinge of something akin to regret ― perhaps guilt for what she'd done, for her brazen betrayal. She yearned to let the world know of a power she felt within herself ― a sweet, unholy glory. But it simply wasn't true. There was no new greatness awakening within her. Rather, she felt as though she'd been buried alive, forced to pull herself up and out of the dirt. Her skin tingled as if it was still on fire, nerves more alive than ever, and yet her bones felt numb and heavy, deadened, as if replaced by aged stone. This was not the power they spoke of, and yet she'd done everything right.

*

The next morning, Caius woke bruised and bleeding. Every muscle seemed to scream as he walked through the house, and even his chest felt tight, as if it was clenched between two fists.

He found Calantha in the kitchen, picking at a pastry.

As he moved to sit beside her, she turned to look to him, eyes wide. "You look terrible, Cai," she said, though she didn't look any better herself.

Fiery anger roiled within him like an inferno. It was an anger he'd never before experienced, as if a new hell had been raised within him. The thought of Demarko ― of Rebekka ― and of his desperate loss ignited a vengeful pain in his chest. Though he knew his sister meant no harm, he couldn't resist the urge to lash out at her ― to cave her face into her skull. He slammed his fist down onto the table top, bringing a sudden spike of pain to his hand.

"Shut up," he snapped. "You know nothing." Whispers in the back of his skull: She thinks you nothing more than a child. She mocks your incompetence.

"Calm down, Cai," she said gently. But it was far more complicated than she made it out to be. There was no winner in this fight ― only two fools whose pride had weakened them.

"You weren't there, Calantha. You didn't see. So do not tell me to calm down. He made a fool of me. Him and Rebekka both." He wanted to slam his hand against the table a dozen more times, if it would undo the events of the past few days ― undo the deep shame that now haunted him. "I want to kill him," he stated, rubbing the side of his hand, which was already beginning to purple. As if he didn't have enough bruises already.

"I understand," she said, her voice gentle once more. He noticed then that Calantha herself looked weak, her clothes tattered and her skin ashen grey. "He embarrassed you, wounded your ego, but killing him is not the way to go about this. Normal people do not kill anyone that threatens them."

He once again fought the urge to slap his sister. "When will you understand, sister? We are not normal. We have never been. So do not tell me to act like something I am not. And do not hope for some kind of change on my part, because you will be sorely let down. I'm not capable of change." He looked away from his sister's sad eyes. "At least not for the better."

He met her eyes once more, but it was her turn to look away, shift her attention to the table. She toyed with the herbs that lay there, awaiting his mother's return home. "It is too late, anyway. All of the Half-Witches left for Belreistkov this morning for the start of the school year."

Caius wondered how she would know that, but then caught the jealousy in her words. But surely, she did not miss that school and those people? Surely, she hated their time as Half-Witches as much as he had?

He was determined to ignore her motives. "Never mind that ― he has to pay. Don't you understand that? I don't care where he is, it doesn't change a thing."

"Caius, the wards around Belreistkov are much too strong," she said slowly, as if he were stupid. "Even our parents had to be invited in, and were then scanned for cursed objects at the gates, too. You cannot get in there. Not even with the help of a hundred Witches." And she didn't need to say it, for he already knew. Not even a single Witch would help him.

But he didn't need their help, nor did he want it. Witches only ever got in the way.

"I can do anything, Calantha. When you say things like that, it makes me wonder if you know me at all." He'd do it because she said he couldn't. Nothing could protect Demarko now ― not love and not magic.