Violetta doesn’t say anything. Gradually, her trembling lessens, though it doesn’t go away entirely. She leans into my touch, and we sit together in silence.
“Adelina,” Violetta finally says. Her voice startles me. She turns so that she can see me. “What happened to you out there in the city? When we were on the canal?”
I shake my head. The memory seems fuzzy now. I’ve always been plagued by illusions of our father’s ghost, but what happened today was something new and frightening. I’d seen him so clearly that I believed he was there. I saw Enzo, engulfing the streets in flames.
Violetta’s tone grows firm. “Tell me,” she says. “I know you’ll keep it bottled up if you don’t, and that might be even more dangerous for all of us.”
I take a deep breath. “I think I created an illusion by accident,” I reply. “Something that I couldn’t control. I woke up this morning feeling a strange pressure against my head, and when we reached the canal, I …” I frown. “I don’t know. I can’t even remember creating the illusions. But I thought what I was seeing was real.”
Violetta reaches a tentative hand out to touch mine. “Can you create something right now? Something small?”
I nod. I pull slightly on a thread of energy, and a ribbon of darkness winds its way up from the center of my palm.
Violetta frowns as she studies me. Finally, she releases my hand. I let the ribbon dissipate. “You’re right,” she replies. “There’s something odd about your energy now, but I can’t quite figure out what. Do you think it has anything to do with what happened at the Night King’s estate?”
My temper rises at that. “You think this is my reaction to killing the Night King,” I say, pushing off the bed and standing before her.
Violetta crosses her arms. “Yes, I think it is. Your energy flares out of control when you go to extremes.”
I tighten my jaw, refusing to think back on Dante’s death. On Enzo’s. “It won’t happen again. I mastered my powers when I stayed with the Daggers.”
“You couldn’t have mastered them as much as you think,” Violetta argues. “You nearly got us all killed! How will you tell reality from illusion if you don’t even know you’re using your power? How do you know you won’t feel that strange pressure on your mind again?”
“It won’t happen again.”
Violetta’s expression is anxious. “What if it’s worse next time?”
I run a hand through my short hair. The strands slide between my fingers. What if she’s right? What if the consequence of letting my anger go unchecked, of twisting my illusions so hard that they kill, is that it feeds my energy so strongly it goes beyond what I can control? I let my thoughts wander. After I killed Dante and we walked the city in a haze, I could barely recall what I did. After Enzo’s death, I’d unleashed my anger on the entire Estenzian arena. I fell unconscious afterward. And this time, with the Night King’s death …
I sigh and turn away from her, then distract myself by fixing my hair in the mirror. In the corner of my vision, I think I see a glimpse of my father’s ghost. He seems to smile at me as he walks along the length of the cabin. His eyes are shrouded in shadow, and his chest is torn open, just the way I remember it from the night he died. I glance at the illusion, but it vanishes before I can focus on it.
It’s not real. I clamp down hard on my energy. “It won’t happen again,” I repeat, brushing Violetta’s concerns aside with a sweep of my hand. “Especially since I’m aware of it now.”
Violetta gives me a pained look—the same expression she once gave me as a little girl, when I refused to help her save the one-winged butterfly. “You don’t have as much control over your power as you think. It shifts so wildly, more so than anyone else’s I’ve felt.”
My temper boils over into anger. I whirl on her. “Maybe if someone didn’t force me to suffer alone as a child, I wouldn’t be like this.”
Violetta turns bright red. She tries to respond, but stumbles on her words. “I’m just trying to help you,” she finally manages.
“Yes, you’re always trying to help, aren’t you?” I sneer.
Her shoulders slump. I feel a twinge of guilt for lashing out at her, but before I can say anything, there’s a light knock on our door.
“Come in,” Violetta says, straightening.
The door opens a crack, and I see Magiano’s golden eyes. “Am I interrupting?” he asks. “It sounded a bit tense in here.”
“We’re fine,” I say, sounding harsher than I mean.
Magiano gives me a look to let me know he doesn’t believe me. He opens the door wider and steps inside. His long braids are matted from the storm, and streaks of water still glisten on his skin. He brings in the scent of rain and ocean. His gold hooped earrings shine in the light.