Page 89 of Ashen Souls

“Well, I’m not complaining. You actually look… rested.”

“Took a temporary break from my own bad decisions. Highly recommend it.”

She raised an eyebrow, but mercifully didn't push. “Your father’s in the study. Your brother and sister are out, but they’ll be back to ruin the peace soon. Tell him lunch is almost ready, and if he makes me come get him, his favorite magnifying glass is going in the dishwasher.”

I smirked. “Understood.”

I left her to the clatter of knives and sizzling pans and headed for the basement stairs.

The study door was half open. I nudged it the rest of the way with my shoulder.

The room smelled different from the kitchen. No roasting garlic here, just the sterile scent of old paper, leather dust, and the chemical bite of binding glue. My father sat at his desk, glasses perched low on his nose, examining a book resting carefully in a wooden cradle he’d built himself years ago.

He didn’t look up when I stepped inside. “You’re early.”

“I wanted to catch you before the house gets loud.”

He glanced up, his gaze piercing behind the lenses. He didn't just look at people. He appraised them the same way he did a sixteenth-century binding. Looking for the cracks.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

“I think so. But I have questions.”

He slipped a marker into the book with practiced care and closed it, setting it aside. “That’s usually how trouble starts.”

I walked farther into the room, stopping across from his desk.

“Do you remember the afternoon after my accident? When you came to pick me up for coffee?”

“You’ll have to be more specific. There were a lot of coffee runs that week.”

“Fine. I’ll be specific,” I said, keeping my voice dead level. “I reached for my phone. My sleeve slipped up. You looked down at my left wrist and froze. You stared at my skin like you’d just watched someone die, and then you bolted back in here.”

His fingers grazed the edge of the wooden book cradle, tracing a familiar groove before he turned his back to me. He stood facing the window, his shoulders rigid against the afternoon light.

“Why are you bringing this up now, Aveline?”

“Because I think you owe me an explanation.” I shoved the sleeve of my hoodie past my elbow and held out my arm. “For this.”

He turned around. The second his eyes registered the lines marring my skin, all the color drained from his face. It was the exact same expression from that afternoon, only this time, there was nowhere for him to run.

He crossed the room and grabbed my forearm, dragging my wrist under the harsh glare of his desk lamp. His thumb hovered a fraction of an inch above the ink, carefully avoiding contact with the mark itself.

“Christ, Aveline,” he breathed. “How long?”

“Not long.” My pulse hammered right against his fingers. “The timeline doesn't matter. What matters is why I have it. And if you saw it that day.”

He dropped my arm. Slowly, he walked back around his desk and sank into his leather chair.

“I don’t know for sure what I saw,” he said, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “It was like an optical illusion. One second your skin was bare, and the next... a burn. The symbol flared up, glowing under your skin just for a second. By the time I blinked, it was gone.” He dropped his hands, staring at the polished mahogany. “You said you felt fine. I convinced myself it was stress. A trick of the light.”

“That doesn't make sense,” I countered. “You weren't just shocked by a hallucination. Have you seen that symbol before? And what about the old leather journal you were tearing through right after? Does it connect to this?”

He let out a ragged sigh. “You're asking too many questions. Questions I'm not entirely sure I have the answers to.”

“I have more.” I stepped right up to the edge of the desk. “Have you ever come across a place called Aethrya?”

His head snapped up. “Where did you hear that?”