After dinner, Emma and Milla stood washing the dishes while Alan dragged a mop across the kitchen floor. The crystal light above them hummed, casting an unforgiving glare on the countertops. Water splashed, and dishes clinked as Emma's hands moved mechanically. Then—Clank!
A plate slipped from Emma's grip, fracturing sharply against the tiles. Milla jumped backward, her eyes snapping to Emma's face.
"Emma!" The bark was like a slap that stung Emma's eyes, jerking her attention upright.
"Not again. I'm sorry, Joe," Emma whispered. The apology was a habit, a reflex, but Joe wasn't there to hear it.
"That's the fifth this week. You're as useless as Alan with a mop." The words cut deep, but Emma barely flinched.
Her mind had been drifting aimlessly since the incident in Mr. FluGer's class. These days, her focus dissolves faster than sugar in boiling water. She couldn't concentrate, couldn't think straight. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess, like a ball of yarn unraveled on the floor.
"The deadline's tomorrow," Alan muttered, wringing his mop. The water in the bucket was as murky as the turmoil in Emma's mind. "Have you decided?"
Emma's fingers curled into her palms, the unspoken words swelling like a bruise. She didn't know what to say, didn't know what to do. The deadline loomed over her, a specter of uncertainty.
"I...I don't know. I've only been throwing people at it," she admitted.
"What if you shoved ten at it?" Milla piped, rocking onto her toes like a child proposing a game. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, but Emma just shook her head.
"I can't hold more than one."
"Use that method," Alan's gaze pinned hers.
"What method?" Milla demanded, elbows slamming onto the counter—puzzled—but Alan just kept staring at Emma.
"You felt it. When you did it with Dyran. Like your bones were slipping out to fill his skin."
"How did you—" She bit her tongue. Of course, he knew. He's Alan. "Yes."
"Let's take a bath, like before," Alan said, the command softened by the ghost of old routines.
"But—" Emma's protest died, the implication settling cold in her stomach.
Milla's fists slammed her hips. "I'm coming too!"
"No!" Their voices cracked together, a perfect harmony of denial.
The two children stepped into the bathhouse together, though their usual ease had evaporated into steamy discomfort. Despite countless shared baths, tension crackled between their damp shoulders.
"Hold on to my sphere," Alan instructed. "Like how you gripped Dyran's last week."
Emma's eyelids squeezed shut. Her breath hitched as she braced herself. Her jumbled mind went blank, anticipation and fear swirling together. Her fingertips prickled—a familiar buzz that made her fingers twitch, eager to dance.
A strange thought tickled in the back of her mind. It was silly, absurd. She wanted to laugh, maybe even burst out giggling. Her lips twitched, betraying the urge.
PAT!
Alan's hand clamped her jaw. He squeezed—hard. "Don't lose focus!"
The buzzing in her fingers intensified. Mana threads slithered from her hands, weaving through the air. They looped around Alan's shimmering form, wrapping tighter with each pass. The threads pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat, which quickened with every second.
Emma fought the tickling thought crawling through her mind. But the sensation spread, creeping through her body. Her skin shimmered faintly as though it had grown tiny limbs, each one twitching to dance. The threads tightened, coiling like jaws snapping shut. Her body felt stretched, pulled, as if every part of her was clenched in Alan's grip. The urge to laugh gnawed at her, wild and uncontrollable.
"More!" Alan barked. His body trembled under the strain, muscles strained as if holding back a flood.
The threads merged into a single, pulsing cord. It connected them like an umbilical link, mana surging between their bodies in waves. Emma's ribs heaved against the invasive flow that coursed through her. The bathwater rippled around them, distorted reflections dancing on its surface like a warped mirror of their emotions.
Emma's scream curdled into a wet gasp. "I can't—" Her words cut off as a soft glow erupted in her abdomen, crackling along nerve pathways. Her spine arched violently, heels drumming against the submerged tiles. Tremors wracked her body, each one more intense than the last. Pressure built behind her eyes—not pain, but a suffocating silence, like being trapped under a glass dome. Something deep within her struggled to break free, desperate to escape. It felt as though her entire body was a prison, straining to shatter.
When the tremors subsided, her limbs fell still. But beneath her skin, ghostly sensations stirred—like insects crawling, their needle-like feet pricking from her navel to her fingertips. Power hummed through her muscles, alive and electric, like a current running through her veins. She tasted copper on her tongue. The sharp tang of Alan's sweat cut through the mineral scent of the water. Without looking, she could feel the rhythm of his pulse, steady and strong, as if it were her own.
Her eyelids fluttered open. Bathwater rippled, responding to the faint twitch of her fingers. She lifted her palm slowly. Sheets of water peeled upward, shimmering as they caught the light. The liquid moved unnaturally, defying gravity.
Her fingers curled into a fist. The water obeyed. It gathered into perfect spheres, each one clear and smooth. Tiny flecks of debris floated inside, suspended like stars in a glassy sky. The orbs hovered between them, steady and controlled.
"Alan!" Her voice rang out, sharp and clear, bouncing off the wet tiles. "The water—I'm moving it!"
WHAM! The door slammed open. "What's going on—"
Their connection splintered. Water spheres splashed. Milla's dress soaked, fabric clinging to her chest.
"Disgusting!" She recoiled, cheeks burning. "Cover yourselves, you—you animals!" The door shuddered in its frame as she fled.