Page 43 of Saint Céline
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After lab, I stood outside Westgrave Hall pretending to answer emails while students crossed the courtyard around me in waves. The wind moved cold through the trees, and my phone felt heavier than normal in my hand. I stared at Mrs. Montgomery’s contact for almost thirty seconds before I pressed call. She answered on the fourth ring.
“Selena?”
The sound of her voice nearly undid me. She sounded relieved.
“Hi,” I said quietly.
“Oh sweetheart.” I heard movement on the other end, fabric shifting, footsteps across hardwood. “Are you all right?”
The question lodged somewhere painful behind my ribs.
“Yes.” I lie.
“You haven’t been by.”
“I know. I’m so sorry Mrs. Montgomery.”
“No, no.” Her voice softened immediately. “You don’t have to apologize. I just…” She exhaled shakily. “I worried.”
About me. Not about the daughter in the grave. The cruelty of that pressed coldly against my throat.
“How are you?” I asked.
After a bout of silence, she responded, “I rearranged Katherine’s closet yesterday.”
My eyes closed briefly.
Mrs. Montgomery continued in the careful, distracted tone people used when trying not to collapse inside ordinary conversations. “I thought maybe organizing things would help, but then I forgot where some of her sweaters originally were, and suddenly that felt catastrophic.”
I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
“She still has tea mugs in the dishwasher.” A small broken laugh escaped her. “Isn’t that ridiculous?”
No. That was grief. Not dramatic enough for movies. Just unbearable in tiny domestic ways.
I leaned against the stone wall outside Westgrave and looked out toward Bellamont’s cliffs. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Anything.”
The answer came immediately, no hesitation.
“Miss Astoria..,” I said softly.
There was a longer silence this time.
“Oh.”
The single syllable carried so much exhaustion I nearly cried right there in the courtyard.
“How is she?”
Mrs. Montgomery let out a breath that sounded dangerously close to relief. “She barely eats unless someone sits with her.”
My chest tightened painfully.
“She keeps sleeping outside Katherine’s door at night.” Another pause. “And she cries.”
