Tarot Academy 4 - Sarah Piper Page 0,3
long time since I’ve felt so desperately helpless.
“Just bring him back to us,” I whisper. “Whatever it takes.”
Two
CASS
I find Stevie in the kitchen, furiously grating cinnamon sticks while the kettle bubbles on the stove. The kitchen counter is a riot of herbs and flowers, powders and teas, sweeteners, some of them in bottles, most of them spilled.
The kitchen is a disaster, but Stevie stands strong.
Her back is to me, and I lean against the wall and take a moment to admire her—her strength and determination, even in the face of this nightmare.
Still, I don’t miss the flinch of her shoulders every time one of the professors shouts another command.
Hold him down…
Goddess, he’s fighting me every step…
Give him the full dosage. Do it now…
I’m falling apart inside, yet still, Stevie focuses on the task at hand. Silently, gracefully, she reaches for another bundle of cinnamon sticks.
The whole kitchen smells of it. Of a home I’ve dreamed of my entire life. And for the span of ten seconds, I close my eyes and inhale the sweet scent that mingles with her own, allowing myself the small comfort of a temporary fantasy.
I tell myself that Ani is alive, lighting up the room with his infectious smile.
That my brothers are here too—Kirin in the study with his nose in a book, Baz working on some project in the backyard.
That I’ve been tasked with nothing more arduous than selecting the best wine for tonight’s meal.
That Stevie is making us another one of her infamous brews.
That all of us are happy and whole.
That we’re a family in the truest sense—chosen. Bonded. Loved.
That this is our home.
I open my eyes. Take in the sight of her, that wild hair spiraling down her back, her shoulders set as she dumps the grated cinnamon into a pot and selects the next batch of herbs for a tea Ani will never drink.
Emotion tightens my throat.
She is our beacon. Our light. And I know that if I asked her to, she would come to me now. Come with me anywhere.
The pull I feel toward her is impossibly strong, a force I won’t be able to ignore much longer. But when I try to imagine opening my heart to her, the fear rushes in, blocking out all else.
In the bedroom, something crashes to the floor, and Stevie jumps, tossing the entire pot into the sink with a clatter.
“The cinnamon is all wrong,” she says. “I need True Ceylon, Doc. How can they expect me to make Sex with a Caramel without True Ceylon?”
She turns to face me, her blue eyes burning with rage.
Of course she knows I’m here. She’s known it from the moment I stepped into the kitchen. She always does.
“I… I’m sorry,” I say, hating myself for it. So insubstantial, so pointless.
Stevie folds her arms over her chest and shakes her head, once again lowering her gaze. Avoiding mine. Wishing, perhaps, for Kirin or Baz instead.
“Most people think it’s the same thing,” she says. “But it isn’t. The medicinal properties of True Ceylon are far superior. The flavor profile is much more subtle, yet it’s—” Her voice breaks, and her shoulders begin to tremble.
I want to run to her. To take her into my arms and promise her that soon the sun will rise, the brightest sun that’s ever graced this painted desert, chasing away the horrid night.
But how can I make that promise when I’m not sure the sun will ever rise for us again?
“Stevie,” I whisper, but I still can’t move. Lead, guilt… My heart and feet are weighted with both. My arms ache to hold her, but all I can do is reach across the space between us and mutter another inane phrase. “Please don’t cry.”
She doesn’t. She looks at me looking at her, looks at my pathetic attempt at comfort, and then my sweet, beautiful, fiery Star fists her hair and lets out a scream so raw, so full of anguish it shatters what’s left of my heart.
The sound of it breaks through the weights holding me in place, and I take a step toward her, still reaching, still aching to touch her.
But she’s already turning back to the sink, retrieving her discarded pot of herbs. Carefully, silently, she places it on the stove and reaches for another cinnamon stick.
Forcing myself through the discomfort, I touch her shoulder.
She flinches away. “Don’t.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, hating myself for it.
“It’s fine,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ll make it work. It’s just cinnamon, right? It’s not like