I had already regretted more than once that I hadn't read the diary while it still existed. Besides, there was something else I wanted to discuss—something that troubled me far more than public recitations of quotations for the amusement of other students.
"That's not what matters right now," I tried once again to steer the conversation in the right direction, though doing so with the Smirnov brothers was no easy task. "Do you remember how Viola jumped up to stop Tanya, and then suddenly collapsed back down? Didn't that strike you as odd?"
Stas hesitated, unsure how to respond.
"You know, I didn't even notice."
"What exactly was strange about it?" Artur asked.
"Can you really imagine Viola deciding to do something—and then giving up so easily?"
"Well, no. She's stubborn. Sometimes too hot-headed, impulsive even. But who knows what was going through her mind at that moment? I don't see anything unusual."
After listening to Artur, I didn't press the issue, yet a clear sense of unease settled inside me. Something was wrong. I replayed the scene over and over in my mind, trying to grasp the source of my anxiety, but I couldn't pin it down. Some connecting thread slipped away the moment I thought I'd found it and refused to return.
The only person left to discuss this with was Viola herself, but something told me that talking to her anytime soon wouldn't be possible. Then again—who knew? Perhaps Max had managed to take care of his sister, and she was already feeling better. Max certainly understood magic far better than all of us combined.
I was pulled from my thoughts by movement near the tree across from us. Dasha, leaning against the trunk, was carefully pushing herself upright. From a distance, she looked as though she had aged several years: her face was drawn and pale, dark circles shadowing her eyes. That was the mark Xertonian secrets left on everyone who touched them. The magical side of the city drained people to the marrow—like a Dementor's kiss from Harry Potter—stripping away joy and the happy memories that helped one stay upright in dark hours such as the one that had struck our lives today.
Dasha approached us, barely able to move her legs. It was painful to watch, though I knew this weakness came from emotion, not injury. None of us had done anything to harm her physically.
We waited in silence for her to speak.
"I've decided," Dasha said at last, sniffling.
Artur waited patiently, studying her face. When she finally looked up, I saw no determination in her eyes—only a crushing ache that seemed far too heavy for such a small, though painfully deep, heart.
"Help me forget."