Chapter 79: Bella’s Flinch

POV: Georgia

I mention the equipment report near the twins just to see what happens.

After last night, after the two columns in my notebook and the circle I pressed so hard into the page it nearly tore through it, I can’t keep sitting around writing things down. I need to know what people do when I say the words out loud. I need to watch a face crack, even just a little, because faces don’t lie the way voices do.

I can’t test Darcy yet. I’m not ready for that. Not ready for what it might mean if he fails, or worse, if he doesn’t.

But the twins are right there, on both sides of my notebook, and they’re easy to find.

They’re in the common room after lunch, sitting on the good couch by the window like they own it, like they’ve always owned it. Afternoon light spills across the cushions, catching dust in the air, turning it gold and lazy. Bianca has her legs crossed with a magazine open over one knee. Bella sits beside her, both hands wrapped around a cup of tea even though the room isn’t cold. I notice how still they both look, how composed, as if they’d been arranged there for a photograph.

My brace clicks with every step across the floor. It announces me before I even reach them, a small, mechanical betrayal I’ve learned to hate.

I take the armchair across from the couch and lower myself into it carefully, biting back the twinge that runs up my leg. My bag drops to the floor beside my good leg.

"Hey," I say, trying for casual.

Bianca doesn’t look up from her magazine.

"Hi, Georgia," she says lightly, like she’s saying hello to the mail carrier.

Bella looks up and gives me a small smile. It’s the polite one they’ve both been using for the past two weeks. It still makes my skin crawl. There’s something too careful about it, too rehearsed, like a mask worn so long it’s started to fuse with the skin beneath.

I’ve practiced what I’m about to say in my head at least ten times. It needs to sound harmless. Bored, even. Like I’m only bringing it up because we’re sitting here and I don’t have anything better to talk about.

"So this is weird," I say, glancing between them. "Someone at the rink accidentally forwarded me the equipment report from the Classic. The one about my skates."

Bianca turns a page.

I keep going, my voice steadier than I feel.

"It says the blade mount had irregular wear. Not normal wear."

Silence.

The clock behind me suddenly sounds way too loud, each tick landing like a small hammer against my nerves.

I watch them without staring. I’ve spent my whole life being judged, which means I’ve gotten pretty good at keeping my face still while paying attention to everything else - the twitch of a hand, the shift of weight, the things people can’t quite control.

Bianca turns another page.

That’s it.

She doesn’t pause. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even seem surprised.

"Wow. That’s unlucky," she says pleasantly.

Her voice is flat, almost rehearsed, and something about the flatness scares me more than any reaction would have.

Too good.

I’ve seen people hear bad news about someone they don’t like. There’s always something. A tiny smile. A raised eyebrow. A wince they can’t quite hide. Some small crack in the surface.

Bianca gives me nothing.

She just keeps reading, as if the words I said dissolved the moment they left my mouth.

Then I look at Bella.

She’s gone white.

Not embarrassed. Not flushed. Just white, like all the blood in her has quietly excused itself.

The tea in her hands trembles.

I hear it tapping softly against the cup, a small, frantic rhythm.

"Bella?" I say gently.

She looks at me.

And her eyes flash amber.

It lasts maybe a second.

Maybe less.

But I see it.

The brown I’d seen a hundred times across classrooms and hallways is suddenly gone, replaced by a warm, bright gold. Her pupils narrow until they’re sharp and strange, animal in a way I don’t have words for yet.

My entire body goes still.

I don’t breathe.

My pulse hits hard against my throat, once, twice, like it’s trying to warn me of something my mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

I’ve explained away the gold at the treeline. Puck’s eyes in the snow. Every strange thing I’ve seen lately. Bad lighting. Exhaustion. Fear. My imagination running wild because I haven’t been sleeping. I’ve built an entire wall of excuses, brick by careful brick, just to keep functioning.

There is no bad lighting now.

It’s the middle of the afternoon. The room is bright. I’m sitting six feet away from her. The wall comes down all at once, and I have nowhere to hide behind it anymore.

I can see every detail of her face.

I know what I saw.

Bella knows I saw it too.

Her mouth opens, but no words come out. Just a small, startled sound, something caught between an apology and a warning.

The cup slips from her hands.

It hits the rug, rolls onto its side, and tea spills across the cream carpet in a slow, spreading stain.

Neither of us moves.

"I have to go," Bella says quickly, her voice thin, almost cracking. "I forgot something. I’m sorry. I have to go."

She gets to her feet so fast the couch cushion bounces.

She doesn’t look at me.

She doesn’t look at Bianca either.

That’s almost worse. It’s the kind of avoidance that speaks louder than any confession could.

Her hands press against her stomach, fingers spread wide, still trembling, and then she’s moving across the room, footsteps quick and uneven, like she’s holding something in by sheer will.

The door shuts behind her.

Silence settles back in, heavier now, thick with everything unsaid.

Bianca finally looks up.

She doesn’t glance toward the door.

She looks straight at me.

Her expression is calm. Completely steady. Unnervingly so.

She holds my gaze for a long moment without blinking, and I feel the full weight of it, like she’s deciding exactly how much of the truth I deserve to see.

I know that look.

It’s the same one she gave me at registration.

"She’s not feeling well," Bianca says evenly. "She’s been like that all week."

"Okay."

My voice barely comes out, small and unconvincing even to my own ears.

Bianca closes her magazine.

She stands and smooths her skirt with both hands, unhurried, deliberate. Then she steps over the spilled tea without even looking down, as though it were an inconvenience beneath her notice.

She walks across the room, back straight, expression unchanged, and slips through the door.

Just like that, I’m alone.

The common room feels enormous now, the light suddenly too bright, too exposing.

The clock keeps ticking behind me, marking each second I spend trying to understand what I just witnessed.

The tea spreads farther into the rug, and the empty cup rests on its side beside the couch, small and forgotten.

I should get up.

I don’t.

I look down at my hands.

They’re shaking.

I hadn’t even noticed.

My heart pounds against my ribs, slow and heavy, each beat a dull ache. My face feels cold, drained, like the blood has gone wherever Bella’s went. I spread my fingers across my lap and stare at them for a second, almost waiting for them to stop.

They don’t.

I just watched a human being’s eyes change color.

I repeat it silently, testing the shape of the thought, waiting for it to break apart like all my other theories have.

Then I wait for the explanation.

You were tired.

It was the light.

You’re not sleeping.

You’re scared.

Anything.

Nothing comes.

For once, my brain doesn’t even try to argue with me. There’s no counterargument, no tidy dismissal, no safe corner to retreat into.

It happened.

I saw it.

And somewhere beneath the fear, quiet and unwelcome, a strange kind of relief settles in - the relief of finally admitting what I’ve known for weeks but refused to say out loud.