the fact that he’s built like Goliath, is normal compared to those too-large, too-black, too-glittery eyes.
My hand tightens around my nightingale, and I breathe in deep, trying to calm down.
Years ago, Orane taught me a meditative breathing cycle. It was during the first few months of my promise, when it was excruciatingly difficult to resist speaking. He taught me how to clear my head and calm my thoughts, promising that, when I held onto my nightingale and meditated, the dreamworld’s light would grow, protecting me.
I do that now, but as soon as I begin, Hudson’s eyes widen. He shifts forward, and my breath catches, the air locking in my throat. He freezes, then steps back until he’s leaning against the wall.
What just happened? He couldn’t possibly see the way the light began to spread out from the nightingale, sliding up my arms and down my legs…could he?
I try it again.
His hands clench into fists, and his entire body tenses. I keep breathing. He looks away, his jaw tense.
Who is this guy?
“Everyone grab a seat,” my mother says, squeezing my shoulder one more time before walking toward the stove.
The dining room table is built for six, but we’ve rarely had more than the three of us sitting here, especially after I went silent. My father takes the head of the table, guiding me into the seat on his left. Everyone else fills in around us. I end up across from Horace and my mother. Which means…
The chair next to me glides back silently. Hudson sits, and the legs scrape against the wood as he scoots closer to the table.
I’m not used to the table being this full. It doesn’t help that Hudson is so broad I’m dwarfed next to him. And it’s like he’s surrounded by electricity. The closer he gets, the more these static-like zaps run up and down my arm. No, it’s more like my arm is waking up after restricted blood flow. That sharp pins-and-needles sensation makes it hard to sit still.
My mother scoops salad onto everyone’s plate. I try to concentrate on the crunchy green food and the tangy dressing smell in the air, but it’s impossible. My arm is tingling too intensely to ignore. It’s only been a couple of minutes, but I’m already starting to twitch. And what is that noise ? It sounds like someone is setting up a PA system outside and getting feedback.
Scooting my chair a little farther away from him, I grip my nightingale tighter and—
“Don’t do that.”
His voice is so quiet I can barely make out the words, but when I glance up, he’s staring straight at me.
“The breathing? And the thing with the bird? I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do that.” My mouth drops open. Hudson shrugs. “The glow is giving me a headache.”
My stomach clenches, and I’m breathing like I just sprinted a mile. He goes back to eating like nothing happened, but his words replay in my head. Did he say glow ? But…he can’t possibly see it. No one can see it. No one but me.
“Hudson, Horace was telling me you’re an artist?” my mother asks.
Hudson tenses, looking at Horace before smiling a little and facing my mother. “It’s a hobby more than anything.”
“What mediums do you prefer?” she asks.
They go back and forth, discussing music and art as my father and Horace dissect my father’s work on our house and a few other projects he’s done around the county. In this group, I am most definitely a fifth, highly unnecessary wheel, but the longer they talk, the easier it is to convince myself I didn’t hear Hudson right. There’s no way he can see my nightingale’s glow. He’s just an overgrown boy with freaky eyes.
I sigh and push the rest of the salad around my plate with my fork. Tonight, I can’t bring myself to even pretend to enjoy this food. Hudson shifts closer, and I barely bite back a hiss as the tingling in my arm grows sharper. I drop my fork, then clench and relax my hand, trying to get blood flow back.
The conversation pauses as my parents retreat to the
My hand tightens around my nightingale, and I breathe in deep, trying to calm down.
Years ago, Orane taught me a meditative breathing cycle. It was during the first few months of my promise, when it was excruciatingly difficult to resist speaking. He taught me how to clear my head and calm my thoughts, promising that, when I held onto my nightingale and meditated, the dreamworld’s light would grow, protecting me.
I do that now, but as soon as I begin, Hudson’s eyes widen. He shifts forward, and my breath catches, the air locking in my throat. He freezes, then steps back until he’s leaning against the wall.
What just happened? He couldn’t possibly see the way the light began to spread out from the nightingale, sliding up my arms and down my legs…could he?
I try it again.
His hands clench into fists, and his entire body tenses. I keep breathing. He looks away, his jaw tense.
Who is this guy?
“Everyone grab a seat,” my mother says, squeezing my shoulder one more time before walking toward the stove.
The dining room table is built for six, but we’ve rarely had more than the three of us sitting here, especially after I went silent. My father takes the head of the table, guiding me into the seat on his left. Everyone else fills in around us. I end up across from Horace and my mother. Which means…
The chair next to me glides back silently. Hudson sits, and the legs scrape against the wood as he scoots closer to the table.
I’m not used to the table being this full. It doesn’t help that Hudson is so broad I’m dwarfed next to him. And it’s like he’s surrounded by electricity. The closer he gets, the more these static-like zaps run up and down my arm. No, it’s more like my arm is waking up after restricted blood flow. That sharp pins-and-needles sensation makes it hard to sit still.
My mother scoops salad onto everyone’s plate. I try to concentrate on the crunchy green food and the tangy dressing smell in the air, but it’s impossible. My arm is tingling too intensely to ignore. It’s only been a couple of minutes, but I’m already starting to twitch. And what is that noise ? It sounds like someone is setting up a PA system outside and getting feedback.
Scooting my chair a little farther away from him, I grip my nightingale tighter and—
“Don’t do that.”
His voice is so quiet I can barely make out the words, but when I glance up, he’s staring straight at me.
“The breathing? And the thing with the bird? I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do that.” My mouth drops open. Hudson shrugs. “The glow is giving me a headache.”
My stomach clenches, and I’m breathing like I just sprinted a mile. He goes back to eating like nothing happened, but his words replay in my head. Did he say glow ? But…he can’t possibly see it. No one can see it. No one but me.
“Hudson, Horace was telling me you’re an artist?” my mother asks.
Hudson tenses, looking at Horace before smiling a little and facing my mother. “It’s a hobby more than anything.”
“What mediums do you prefer?” she asks.
They go back and forth, discussing music and art as my father and Horace dissect my father’s work on our house and a few other projects he’s done around the county. In this group, I am most definitely a fifth, highly unnecessary wheel, but the longer they talk, the easier it is to convince myself I didn’t hear Hudson right. There’s no way he can see my nightingale’s glow. He’s just an overgrown boy with freaky eyes.
I sigh and push the rest of the salad around my plate with my fork. Tonight, I can’t bring myself to even pretend to enjoy this food. Hudson shifts closer, and I barely bite back a hiss as the tingling in my arm grows sharper. I drop my fork, then clench and relax my hand, trying to get blood flow back.
The conversation pauses as my parents retreat to the
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