Nevermore

“What’s funny is,” he said, sitting up, seemingly unfazed by Brad’s death threats or her added warnings, “neither do I.”

He stood, popping the collar of his green jacket, the sudden movement causing her to stiffen. He noticed it too, and paused to stare at her.

She looked away, rubbing her arm. It was just that he could be so imposing sometimes. And unpredictable. And it was just too surreal to see him standing in her room like this.

“Do me a favor, would you?” He moved to her window.

“What’s that?”

“Take your own advice.”

“What do you mean, take my own advice?”

“I mean,” he said, handing her the now slightly runny carton of Banana Fudge Swirl, packing the other away into the nylon bag, “that you should steer clear of your ex for a while.”

Isobel tilted her head at him in wonderment. That would be doing him a favor?

“Varen?”

“Isobel.”

A chill ran through her at the way he said her name, the way he gave each syllable its own moment, making it sound so regal, so proper. He stood with his back to her, his hands gripping the sides of her window frame. His shoulders remained tense, like he knew what was coming but still held hope that he could escape.

“Why—why did you come here tonight?”

He turned his head toward her, though he didn’t meet her gaze. As usual, he didn’t answer right away either.

“Because you were right,” he said at last. “Yesterday, you were right. And I wanted a chance, deserved or not, to apologize. So . . . for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Isobel swallowed with difficulty. Had he really just apologized to her?

He ducked his head, lowering himself to straddle her window ledge.

“However, that said”—he looked back at her now, his eyes filled with a dark and secretive mirth

—“I can promise that you’ll never be right about me again.”

Isobel set her carton of ice cream aside on her dresser. She stepped forward and stopped at her window, looking down at him, speaking before she knew what to say. “Never?”

For the first time since they’d met, since they’d been paired together for the project, his gaze was the one to fall away from hers.

Then something on her carpet caught his attention. He frowned, brow furrowing.

“Hey,” he said, climbing back inside. He brushed past her.

Isobel’s eyes widened, following him as he moved to her bedside. Crouching, he pulled something out from underneath. She felt a surge of panic when she saw the book. He turned to glare at her over his shoulder, holding up The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Isobel stood frozen in place, able to do nothing but gape. He rose, his gaze admonishing as he set the book on her nightstand.

“Little more respect, please,” he said, and moved past her again to climb out the window.

“Wait,” she called. She hadn’t finished telling him about her dream. How could she have forgotten?

His presence, it had been like a spell. And now he was leaving and it was too late. He was going to leave her alone with that book. “You can’t go yet.” She reached out, but stopped short of grasping his arm. “I have to tell you about the dream. I haven’t finished telling you what happe—”

“Tomorrow,” he said, ducking out. She watched him walk the length of her roof, powerless to call after him. He turned when he reached the end, then climbed down her mother’s lattice just as she’d done that day she’d snuck out to meet him. Before she could utter another syllable to stop him, she heard a quiet clink of chains as his boots met with the turf below.

21

Motley Drama

Despite her extra-slow walk to Swanson’s class the next morning, Isobel’s heart raced in her chest.

It thudded against her rib cage and pounded in her ears, the anticipation of seeing him again gripping her more tightly by the second.

She’d had to pace herself, not wanting to arrive too soon and be left sitting there, making it seem as though she was waiting for him. Then again, she didn’t want to get there too late and not get the chance to talk to him at all. Would he talk to her?

Isobel gripped her books against her chest, as though that could help slow her pulse. She wasn’t sure why it felt like such a big deal, anyway. It was just class, right?

Isobel entered Mr. Swanson’s room with her head down. She went straight to her seat, chancing only a quick glance in the direction of Varen’s chair. It sat empty in its corner.

She took her seat and, even though she told herself not to, watched the door.

Kids filed in. Chairs filled. The clock on the wall measured the minutes. The bell rang.

Varen’s seat remained vacant, leaving Isobel with the sensation that a boulder had somehow materialized in the pit of her stomach.

For the first twenty minutes of class, as Swanson scribbled across the chalkboard, she held on to the hope that he was just running late. Her gaze kept straying from her senseless notes to the door. But then, at half past, a sinking feeling overtook her as she realized he wasn’t coming.

Over and over she wondered where he could be. Her mind played out different scenarios, most of which involved the wrath of a certain ex-boyfriend.