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It’s cathartic, in a way, the empty bottle of wine tipped over, the blood dripping from her fingertips onto the glass, coating the dagger underneath. The sound echoes in the quiet bathroom. Leonora knows that, by the time anyone finds her, it’s too late.
She wishes it could’ve gone differently. She wishes her 17th birthday hasn’t sucked as bad as it did. She wishes she wouldn’t have met Rafal. She wishes that the schoolmaster would’ve kept his hands to himself instead of painting her body and the insides of her thighs with bruises. She wishes she would’ve kissed Clarissa when she had the chance, on that one day between Christmas and New Years. On her birthday. It would’ve been a great gift, and Clarissa would’ve liked it better than the book she had given her instead, the pressed flowers Leonora had preserved for her still between the pages.
There’s a parchment on her desk, sealed with dark wax and a hint of magic, preventing anyone but Clarissa from opening it. She’ll know. Leonora spent months crafting it, documenting everything, times and dates and words. Verified by a spell it’ll be enough to take him down and free the staff and the students from his tyranny, his carelessness and his lack of responsibility. She hopes that, in the end, even without her, Clarissa can be the Dean she wants to be. Not a scapegoat, not a toy used for fundraising events, for dances with princes and kings she doesn’t want to be near, not having to smile when she feels like crying.
They’ve been there. They’ve been there too many times. Weekends and evenings wasted in decorated halls, with conversations they had been forced to hold, dinners forced to eat. Leonora’s restricted diet ignored and refused to accommodate, leaving her bedridden for days. She doesn't have to do it anymore, and she leaves enough evidence to free Clarissa from the same responsibility, the same ordeal. The prison they’ve been kept in.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Her body aches, slumped over the edge of the tub, the water enchanted to stay warm. Her fingers are cold, even with the blood running over them, the sound it makes hitting the bottle slowly pulling her to sleep. It’s Friday. She won’t be missed until Tuesday morning, her potions class. She doubts she’ll be missed at all.
Turns out, she is missed. Only a few minutes later, when the door is yanked out of its hinges. She hears it, doesn’t see, her eyelids too heavy to force open. That’s it.
-
If heaven exists, she knows she’s not going there. But when her eyes flutter open and she stares into a beautifully painted evening sky, she wonders if being nice to Clarissa for even just a few minutes in the years they’ve known each other has granted her a spot there after all. It’s warm, too. Comfortable, soft. Like clouds. Maybe clouds aren’t just water after all, or she is losing her mind. Does life after death even exist?
Leonora blinks before she shifts, slowly, carefully. Her body feels a little too heavy to her liking and if she is dead, why is she still thinking? Why does she wonder where she is? If life after death is like this, why did she even die? She could’ve been miserable like this and still— her ears pick up the familiar sounding crackling of wood as it burns, and then the well known warmth of a fire washes over her face.
Slowly, with effort, she lifts her throbbing head, her neck stiff and protesting the movement. Her injured arm, wrapped in white bandages, rests carefully on a pile of soft pillows beside her. It’s the smell, the warmth—something achingly familiar about the scent of burning wood and lavender.
Her gaze travels up again, catching the painted evening sky above her. It moves in slow, enchanted strokes, streaks of gold and deepening violet, casting the room in a warm, comforting glow. The ceiling is familiar, too, the magic in it unmistakable. Clarissa’s. She had tried it, too. Years ago, only to find out that her sky displayed only clouds, the spell a failure.
For a moment, Leonora lets her head rest back against the soft pillow, relief and confusion swirling in her chest. She’s not dead, apparently. She’s not floating in some purgatorial haze, trapped between realms. She’s here, alive, and she knows where she is. She’s right in Clarissa’s bed.
Leonora’s throat feels raw, dry as if she’s swallowed a spoonful of sand. She tries to move her arm, the one that isn’t injured, but it barely shifts under the weight of the exhaustion that tugs on her. Blood loss, probably. She has been there before, just not like this. Still, she manages a glance around the room. Clarissa’s touches are everywhere—the neatly folded throw on the armchair right by the bed, the stack of books on the bedside table, the familiar scent that lingers in the air. Flowers, bright colors, music. Softly, from somewhere.
The sound of footsteps reaches her ears, light and careful, and she knows who it is before she even sees her. Clarissa, always so composed, even when her world is on fire. Leonora’s breath catches as the door opens and reveals the woman.
Clarissa stands there, her face unreadable in the soft light, eyes sharp and shadowed with worry. She steps into the room and her gaze settles on her face. Her hair is down, her frilly little crown nowhere to be found. Even her disgustingly bright dress has been swapped with something more muted, a lavender colored nightgown, tied in the front.
“Here’s a little bit to eat” she says quietly and settles on the chair by the bed, holding a small bowl with a substance Leonora can’t quite identify. “I’m not arguing with you about this.”
Leonora only nods and parts her lips, willing to accept anything she is giving her. She doesn’t want to argue, either. Doesn’t have the strength left. If she thinks about it, she doesn’t want to argue with Clarissa ever again. She’s so beautiful, like this. Without the nauseatingly bright, fake smiles and the heavy jewelry.
“It’s just a little bit of rice porridge,” the blonde woman explains, knowing of Leonora’s restrictions, having stepped in whenever the Dean for Evil wasn’t fit enough to lead her school after events or gatherings. “Some cinnamon, too. It’s gentle on your stomach” Clarissa continues, her voice soothing as she lifts the bowl closer for her to see. “Just a little bit at a time” the woman instructs gently, her eyes steady on Leonora's face, as if willing her to trust that everything will be okay.
She watches Clarissa’s fingers as they guide the spoon to her lips, her movements so careful, so intentional. Caring. The amount offered is small, and yet Leonora scrapes off only half, mashing the leftover grains against the roof of her mouth before she swallows. The heat of the bites is gentle against her parched throat and the more she eats the more the warmth in her stomach begins to spread through her body. The rich, comforting flavor is like a balm against the lingering chill inside of her, and with each tiny spoonful, she feels a bit more alive. Clarissa waits patiently between bites, refilling the spoon, offering it to her over and over again until the bowl is empty.
It’s not much, takes Leonora only a few minutes. Less than a cup of coffee, half at most, but she feels so full that she barely manages the last bite. That’s when it happens—a small bit of porridge clings stubbornly to her lip, proof of her uncoordinated state. A flicker of embarrassment rises in her cheeks, but before she can react, Clarissa is there, her thumb gentle as it sweeps across Leonora’s mouth, catching the overcooked grain.
Leonora’s breath hitches at the intimacy of the gesture. “I’m such a mess,” she mumbles, the words tinged with a hint of shame, and she’s trying to sink deeper into the sheets, away from Clarissa, away from everything.
“You’re doing wonderfully, you know that? Eating all that like a champ.” Clarissa pauses while she places the empty bowl on the nightstand, trying to find a place amidst the mess of jewelry and books. Then, she faces her again. “You slept for three days, Lesso.”
She just nods, more shame flooding her like a wave the shore. “You found me.” It’s a fact, not a question, and Clarissa nods. She’s thankful.
“I had my suspicions, but I wasn’t sure. You darted out of the room when he made this awful comment during the staff meeting and— I wanted to talk to you in the evening, wanted to make sure you were okay. Your wards weren’t in place when I knocked against the door and then I let myself in. I knew something must’ve happened when your door just swung open. Usually, “ Clarissa has to smile, “usually the door knob tries to bite me.”
Leonora can’t help but huff a weak, humorless laugh at that. “Usually,” she repeats, her voice barely a murmur. It’s true—her wards were designed to be impenetrable, especially to anyone who dared come uninvited, Clarissa included. But that day, she hadn’t cared. She hadn’t even bothered to protect herself from anyone finding her. “That was careless of me,” she adds, eyes downcast. “I didn’t think anyone would come looking.”
She clenches her jaw, trying to fight the overwhelming surge of emotions rising inside her. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. I didn’t want anyone to.”
“Someone would’ve found you eventually” the blonde woman replies. “And if it had been someone else—” she doesn’t finish her sentence. “The fairies helped me to get you here.”
Leonora winces at the thought of anyone else finding her, the vulnerability of it making her stomach churn. She turns her head slightly, unable to meet Clarissa’s eyes. The image of Clarissa draining the blood-tinged water, gently wrapping her arm and drying her off—careful, attentive—stirs something deep in her chest. It’s a mix of shame and gratitude, tangled together in a knot she doesn’t know how to unravel. She’s seen the bruises, then. Read the letter she left on her desk, too. Knows what he’s done.
“I’m not the most talented at healing spells” Clarissa continues and a faint blush creeps to her cheeks. “And I hope I didn’t mess up anything in the process. The cuts didn’t close completely and I wrapped your arm instead of trying again. I’m sorry if it doesn’t look as good as you would’ve liked it.”
“I wanted to die, Clarissa. I couldn’t care less how my arm looks.”
The bluntness of the statement sends a shock through the good dean’s body, but then again she could’ve expected such an answer. In her world, suicide and anything related to it was shameful and inappropriate, and hearing Leonora talk to openly about it is something she wouldn’t have expected. Taking a deep breath to gather herself, she clears her throat. “I also reached out to the healers in the infirmary. They provided me with an ointment for your bruises, which I applied to your thighs, your ribs and your neck. I, uhm, found some on your chest, too. I hope you didn’t mind.” She holds back the questions that have been brewing in her head for the past days, the question that formed after she read the parchment Lesso had placed and sealed on her desk. Parting her lips at first, she closes them again, her eyes darting through the room, only to find piercing gray eyes staring at her when she finds Leonora’s gaze.
“You have questions” the redhead says and shifts, feeling the rice porridge settling in her stomach. “Go ahead.”
“It wouldn’t be appropriate to ask them.”
“I’m in your bed. You found me half dead in the bathtub, naked, and cleaned me up. You stitched up my arm. Ask them.”
Still, she hesitates, and shakes her head. “You should rest,” Clarissa says instead. “You’ve been up for long enough.”
“Clarissa.”
“No. I don’t want to push you further than you are able to go at the moment,” she admits, her voice trembling slightly. “I don’t want to make you feel worse. You’ve already been through so much. Please, don’t start arguing with me. You’ve lost blood and you’re in dire need of rest.”
But Leonora shakes her head. “I’m managing.”
“You’ve been managing for the last twenty years” the dean for good chokes out through tears that threaten to spill over. “And you kept it to yourself for so long. You endured him for so long and everyone, including me, just— we just tore you apart. All this rivalry was his fault, he sought me out, told me how important it was to keep you under control. That we had to keep this, everything,” she gestures wildly, “in order because the world depended on it. Lies! All of them!”
Leonora flinches at the raw honesty in Clarissa's voice, the way the words seem to cut through the haze of drowsiness and shame enveloping her. She can see the hurt etched across Clarissa’s features, the guilt and anguish battling for dominance in her expression. “You didn’t tear me apart,” she murmurs, but the words feel feeble, like a bandage over a wound that runs far too deep.
“I should have seen it,” Clarissa continues, her voice shaking with the weight of her regret. “I should have known how much you were suffering.” That’s when she gets up and starts pacing. “All those times you smiled through the pain, I thought you were strong and sinister and insane, mental at times—” She wipes away a tear with the back of her hand, her eyes fierce yet soft as they meet Leonora’s. “But you’re human. You shouldn’t have had to hide it. And I should have been there for you. I should’ve been better. Good.”
Leonora’s heart aches at the sincerity in Clarissa’s words, but the familiar bitterness rises in her throat. “What would you have done? What could anyone have done? It’s not your fault. I was the one who chose to endure. He just took what he wanted, and I didn’t stop him.” She feels her own energy draining, unspoken words and pressing thoughts piling in her head, but when her vision begins to blur Leonora knows that she has to stop. Taking a shaky breath, the redhead tries to relax back into the sheets, her whole body having turned rigid. “You are good, Clarissa” she presses out, trying to get at least her point across before she watches her fall apart right then and there. “Don’t ever doubt that.”
Her words hang in the air, and for a moment, Clarissa stops pacing, her breath hitching as she absorbs the weight of Leonora's compliment. It’s rare, coming from her. Happens once every decade, at most. “You’re kind,” she replies, but there’s a quiver in her voice. “I just wish I had done more.”
“I made my choices,” Leonora insists with every bit of strength she has left. “I tried to keep the chaos contained. I simply failed, again.”
It’s enough to draw her back in, to keep Clarissa from ruining the carpet. She approaches the bed again and sits down gently on the edge, her eyes never leaving Leonora's face. “You didn’t fail, Lesso,” she says softly, her voice surprisingly steady, as she reaches out and dries her cheeks. “You fought against everything thrown at you, and that’s something most people could never manage. Just because the outcome wasn’t what you wanted doesn’t mean you didn’t try. Can you sleep now? Please? I promise, we’ll talk tomorrow. But you look exhausted.”
Leonora blinks, her heavy eyelids fighting to stay open as she processes Clarissa's words. The warmth of her colleague’s presence wraps around her like a comforting blanket. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” she murmurs.
“You’re allowed to worry me,” Clarissa replies. “You’re my person.”