I should have been more careful, shouldn’t have let my fear get in the way of my rules. I used to think if I could get rid of the thread, I could be normal. I tried pulling it out once. There’d been too much blood. Too much pain. Mom found me. I lied and said I cut my hand. The thread is part of me as much as my blood and my veins, and it responds to my fear and my anger…as if it’s attached to my heart.

And that makes me afraid. Because I’m tempted to lose control, open my palm, and let the thread sprout like a flower and dance, twist, twirl, thread through Mr. Val’s back, twine around his soul, and he’d fall to the floor, dead.

He’d be gone—that mundane suit, the wrinkles on the bottom of his jacket, that thick mustache. Gone. And I wouldn’t just be taking his soul. I’d be killing him.

And there would be Thane with his coal-black eyes and ever-present smirk, asking me, “What happened to Mr. Val?”

“Miss Silby.” Mr. Val’s voice cuts through the air. I jump in my seat and meet his stare. “What is the value of y?”

My brain scrambles, and my tongue feels thick and swollen in my mouth. My gaze slides to the problem on the blackboard. It looks like a foreign language. Worse, Mr. Val’s black eyes don’t move from mine as he waits for an answer.

I think through what I’d been doing before I was called on.

Oh. The thread.

A thing just as alien as the problem on the board.

Mr. Val’s eyes remain on me, even when he calls on someone else. “Miss Rivera.”

“One,” Natalie answers smugly.

“Correct.”

At least Mr. Val doesn’t seem impressed.

I take copious notes after that, but it isn’t until the bell rings that I realize I’ve been clenching my fist so hard, my hand is shaking. I concentrate on uncurling my fingers one at a time until the pencil falls against the desk and rolls into my lap.

Mr. Val clears his throat, and I look up to find the class empty. He stands behind his desk, staring at me.

“As much as I think more practice would benefit you, Miss Silby, I’m sure you don’t want to be late for your next class.”