14
his name was noah
Later that day, Sera sat in her corner in the library contemplating things. Mrs. Fairfax could have been sleepwalking, but that still didn’t explain the crying, the apologies, and why she was calling Sera’s name. Sera sighed. Mary had asked to be excused to the infirmary to help Nurse; hopefully she learned something of Mrs. Fairfax’s condition, anything to explain her strange behavior the previous night.
A peculiar heaviness settled on Sera, as though she were being watched. She glanced up from her book. Whittaker stared at her from across the room, his seedy eyes narrowed and lips pulled into a smile. A shadow swathed Sera and drew her attention. She spun to Susan Whittaker holding an impression, a smile similar to her brother’s on her lips. “I believe this is yours.”
Sera’s stomach sank to her feet, and the floor seemed to spin and sway beneath her. The impression was of Sera’s back, taken when she had been rescued by the Aetherium. Myriad scars marred her skin, some of the newer ones still inflamed.
Standing, she tore the image from Susan’s hands. “Where did you get this?” she snarled, her magic flaring. She gripped the girl’s arm and yanked her forward. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it,” Susan replied, impervious to Sera’s grip and blatant anger. “But it’s only one of eleven impressions. I wonder where the others are?” She looked over Sera’s shoulder.
Sera followed her stare to the students along the tables. They stared down at something—pages that they exchanged with one another.
Sera shoved Susan aside. With each impression that was passed along, she cringed. It was as if they’d taken her body, cut it into pieces, and parceled it out, and now their merciless hands touched the deepest parts in her soul.
No, no, no.
Anger, humiliation, and sorrow battled to possess Sera, and her magic scattered under their fight. She growled and rushed to the tables, snatching away the impressions that had been distributed. “Give that to me!”
“Miss Dovetail!” The girls’ matron, Mrs. James, rushed to Sera, gripped her shoulders, and yanked her around, quickly seizing the pages. “What is the meaning of this…?”
She glanced down at the impression, and her breath caught. Her brows gathered, and she looked at Sera, a mix of shock and anger, but for once, it wasn’t directed at her. She whirled to the students surveying the various impressions, to the assistant matrons standing idly by. “Collect them, now!”
She swept to the nearest table and grasped the notes of Sera’s file that had also been distributed.
Across the room, Timothy wrenched Whittaker’s cloak and pulled him close. Whittaker shrugged and shook his head, clearly denying any involvement. But Sera knew this was done by his hand. Mary had warned her that he sought revenge, but while Sera had been ready in case he tried to hurt her physically, he’d instead come after her soul. Timothy shoved him aside and glanced at Sera, genuine pain in his eyes. What can I do, his stare screamed, is there a way for me to fix this?
Tears distorted him in her eyes, the answer a painful no. Nothing could make this better. She was broken, and now everyone knew. After being shattered so many times, she was unsure how she fit together, much less what anyone could do to help.
She focused on Whittaker, her body trembling. Each quiver spread heat through her body, crumbling her self-control. Reason begged her to think of her family and her position with Barrington. But lost to her memories and dissonant rage, she snatched out her wand. Magic, hot and cruel, waved up to her fingertips, ready for release. She would bind him, squeeze until he begged for mercy, but she would refuse him until his screams drowned out her own heartbeat in her ears.
Yet, digging her nails into her wand, Sera ground her teeth together and suppressed her sinister desires. Noah had taken her magic. She wouldn’t allow Whittaker to take away her chance at finding her family.
Barrington rushed into the library, a shadow in all black. His wolf eyes fixed on Sera, then briefly lowered to her wand. Seeming to understand what she could have done but hadn’t, he stalked to Whittaker. The boy’s eyes widened, fear devouring his complexion. He held his hands at surrender, but Barrington fisted the boy’s cloak and dragged him out of the library.
“Professor Barrington.” Mrs. James rushed to him and handed him the stolen impressions and notes she’d recovered. He took them from her blindly and shared quick words Sera couldn’t hear. Glancing briefly over his shoulder at Sera, his jaw clenched, and then he stalked out of the library, Whittaker sniveling beside him.
Sera gripped the nearest chair. The ache of refusing her magic burned her insides, while the sudden change in events stole her breath.
“Come away, now,” Mrs. James said, in an uncharacteristic soft tone, and with a gentleness unlike her, she touched Sera’s elbow, guiding her out of the library and upstairs to the tower door. She pulled it open and nodded Sera inside.
Sera hesitated a moment. Mrs. James was going to let her go? Even though the events at the library weren’t Sera’s fault, she was certain she’d be blamed one way or another. A seventhborn was always at fault, even when they were innocent. Perhaps Mrs. James was the one unwell, taken by whatever plagued Mrs. Fairfax. But too tired to consider it further, Sera moved into the tower stairs and ascended.
She stopped and turned. Of course Mrs. James wouldn’t let her go so easily.
“Will you be all right?” She looked Sera in the eyes, shame and pity brimming in her stare.
Sera’s heart twisted. No, she wouldn’t ever be all right. Not until she found her family and her memories, until being a seventhborn didn’t mean a life of persecution and torment.
“No, but I’ll have to be,” she replied. It’s all she could do. Whatever the pain, she had to fight and survive.
Mrs. James pressed her lips together and nodded. “Indeed, and just so you know, Professor Barrington said a maid saw Mr. Whittaker in the records room last night, rummaging through files. She was afraid to say anything but came to her senses and reported it. Now, get some rest. I will have Miss Tenant bring up your supper and will speak to your teachers about your assignments for today.”
She walked away. And though she didn’t apologize for her previous behavior and prejudice, Sera appreciated her thoughtfulness, however briefly it might last. With her spirits as low as they were, a little kindness went a long way.
…
Once Mary had come and gone, Sera transferred to Barrington’s home. Upon further reflection, she suspected the maid who’d exposed Whittaker’s involvement hadn’t come to her senses alone. Remembering Barrington’s words and his knowledge about Sera’s meetings with Mary and Timothy, she was sure he had his sources in the school. And if silence was a commodity, then information was, too. And however much it was worth, Barrington had paid it for her.
The scent of smoke and sulfur pushed the thought to the back of Sera’s mind. Clapping a hand over her nose, she followed the offensive scent out into the hall, where she then trailed the white smoke billowing out from the workroom.
Barrington stood by the worktable, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He held his wand above a black dish resting on a spirit lamp in the center of the table. His magic was draped over the dish like a dome of blue mist. White smoke twisted up to the ceiling, joining the thick clouds already there and those escaping out the door or through the open windows in the back of the room.
Sera watched him move around the workroom, his stride confident and movements graceful as he observed his experiments and jotted down notes, unaware of her presence. She started to enter, but trepidation rooted her to the floor.
No doubt he’d seen the impressions, and surely he’d already suspected something terrible had happened to her, though he’d never prodded in spite of her reactions. Yet, he always asked for permission before he touched her, and when she conceded, his hands were always gentle as if her acquiescence was a gift and he was grateful for her trust. But what would he think of her now that he knew what had been done to her, that the scar he’d seen on her arm was only one of many?
Sera’s hands tightened, and she eased back. This was bad. She shouldn’t care what he thought of her and whether she disgusted him or not. They had a working arrangement, and it didn’t extend beyond that. But while she wished his imminent reaction didn’t scare her, her thundering pulse beat with sharp spasms of truth. She didn’t care about what the rest of the students thought of her; they meant nothing. But Barrington had somehow carved a place into her life with kindness, and as arrogant and boorish as he could be, his opinion mattered more than she ever would have thought. Beyond what she would have liked.
Perhaps feeling the weight of her stare, he lifted his gaze and straightened sharply. “Miss Dovetail—”
Flames burst from the dish like a torch.
“Damn it!” Barrington tore a rag from the table and plucked up the plate now emitting plumes of black smoke. He rushed to the window and set it on the sill. He snapped the window shut, the smoke outside like storm clouds pressed against the glass.
He turned and raked a hand through his hair, and she sensed her apprehension was contagious. “Miss Dovetail, you startled me.”
“Sorry.” She entered the room, glad the smoke had dissipated, though the sulfuric scent lingered. “And sorry about your experiment.”
He turned down the flame in the spirit lamp and dropped the rag on the table. “It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway. I haven’t decoded the entire spell but got impatient and thought to test out what I have so far.”
Sera’s brows rose. “You, impatient?”
A small grin tipped his lips. “Shocking, I know.”
Silence stretched between them. Unsure whether he wanted to speak of what happened or not, Sera walked around the table crowded with retorts and crucibles, flasks and funnels, and preservation jars, half of which were empty. The others contained dead rodents, reptiles, and other specimens. She neared her face to the jar of a dead rat and wrinkled her nose. “What on earth are you doing?”
Barrington leaned back onto the edge of the side counter and sighed heavily. “Well, based on the ciphers you gathered from the impressions, I’ve been attempting to piece together the spell, to see what our necromancer attempted to do.” He reached beside him and picked up his notebook. She moved to his side, and he started to explain. “Typically they’re in a chain, each circular cipher containing different information. You see how the ciphers here are reversed? That indicates black magic. The hook here determines temperature, here signals time of day. In your spell books, the spells are already translated. But when we are investigating a case, we must decrypt them ourselves, and that”—he sighed weightily—“is where the work is. I must deconstruct these random snippets of spells until I find the correct combination.”
He pointed at a peak in the circle. “This indicates the type of wand used, which can tell us what element the magician is inclined to. If there is no symbol here, then it was wandless, which makes things a bit trickier. This curve here measures intensity of magic, and the swirl here is length of time the spell was cast. And—”
He cut himself off and shook his head. “Forgive me, I’m sure the last you want after a day of lessons is another lecture.”
“You are much more entertaining, believe me, unless you are about to tangent into a discourse on the persecutions.”
He arched a brow. “I will spare us both the punishment.”
She smiled and leaned in closer to study the ciphers, preferring his scent of sandalwood over that of sulfur lingering about them. “What have you discovered so far?”
Outlining a cipher with his finger, he said, “Here it says it rained the night this spell was used. Of course, we are in the middle of our wet season, and so I’m not sure whether rain is essential or was just coincidental. But since it is not raining now”—he motioned to the cylindrical canister over one of the spirit lamps—“I was attempting to recreate the atmospheric balance by other means. The rest of the ciphers deal with objectives.”
He tapped a portion of the circle that looked like two loops with a line through them. “I see here they bound our victims with magic, which reinforces what Portia said about her touching the body.”
“And she also had burn marks on her wrist, many tiny lines.”
“In necromancy, you must bind yourself to the body you attempt to raise. But there are two ciphers that indicate binding, and they happen minutes away from each other. Why bind the victims once, then again?”
Sera considered the ciphers in question. “Maybe they broke through it, and so they were forced to bind her again?”
He smiled. “Good theory, except the cipher is not broken. The spell—as seen by a complete circle—is still intact. Were the binds severed at any point, it would show.”
Sera frowned. “I wish they would teach us this instead of Rhodonite potions.”
“Soon enough. Ciphers take years to learn, but you’ve a brilliant professor to teach you.”
Sera rolled her eyes. “So is this what we’ll be working on today?”
“No, actually.” He closed the notebook and set it down. “I didn’t expect to see you today after what happened with the Whittakers and Mrs. Fairfax.”
“What will happen to the Whittakers?”
“Well, after Mr. Whittaker blamed his sister for concocting the entire affair, he accused Mrs. Fairfax, said she was the one who let them into the records room.”
Remembering the woman’s odd behavior, Sera hugged herself. “Do you think he tells the truth?”
“Mr. Whittaker is a coward and an opportunist and would blame his own mother to save himself. But it was all Headmistress Reed needed to hear to practically exonerate the boy and his sister. She felt forbidding them from going to the Solstice Dance was punishment enough.”
Sera shook her head, her cheeks growing hot. “Of course she would think it punishment enough, all they did was torment a seventhborn.” She scoffed. “Prejudice has turned her blind.”
Barrington hummed in agreement. “But worry not, I’ve spoken to Mr. Whittaker. They won’t hurt you again,” he said with a conviction that told Sera that although Headmistress Reed refused to punish the Whittakers, Barrington had delivered his own warnings. She stifled a smile, her heart warm. How she wished she could have seen the damn boy tremble as Barrington towered over him, issuing secret threats, all in her honor.
“As for Mrs. Fairfax, she claims to have no memory of how she got to your room. Nurse said she’s suffering from exhaustion and was most likely sleepwalking. She’s being kept under observation for a few days and hopefully, she will remember more soon. But just in case she harbors any ill motives or something else is afoot—whether of the magical variety or an undiagnosed mental condition—I’ve secured my own surveillance.”
Thinking back on the woman’s behavior the previous night, Sera shivered. Mrs. Fairfax had looked at her with a strange mix of sorrow and guilt, not malice. While Barrington was right to think Mrs. Fairfax’s condition warranted some added concern, Sera did not find magic or prejudice to be the culprit, no. Mrs. Fairfax hadn’t meant to hurt her, she realized now. Her incessant apologies and tears confirmed this. But what on earth had been wrong with her? Sera clasped her hands together, still feeling the woman’s warm tears on her skin. Perhaps some illness had gone undiagnosed?
“In the meantime,” he said, through her thoughts, “if you don’t feel up to training…”
She arched a brow. “Give me some credit, Professor. I’ve encountered worse.”
His frame tensing, he lowered his head. “Yes, of course. Forgive me for implying…”
“No, that isn’t what I meant. I…my scars…the impressions you saw today—”
“I didn’t look. I had my suspicions, but I never looked, and I never read that portion of your file.” He met her gaze at this. “What happened to you is a private matter that I will hear only from you, should you ever desire to tell me.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she spun away from him, as if it were possible to put distance between him and her memories. Yet knowing he stood there behind her, silent and willing to listen or abandon the subject should she choose, she pressed a hand to her chest, her heart twisting. Every fiber in her wanted to tell him, wanted more than guarded conversations and apologies. Wanted no more walls built of nightmares and secrets.
“Miss Dovetail—”
“All I knew when I woke up alone in the cargo hold of a ship was my name, age, and that I was starving. Nothing existed before that moment, not even the knowledge of my tattoo.”
She motioned to the dead rat within the preservation jar. “A rat darted past, and in my hunger, I reached for it. Next thing I knew, I had slaughtered it without ever touching it. I was so scared. Not only did I not know who I was, but what I was. And then he found me.” She let out a shuddering breath and turned to him. “His name was Noah.”
Barrington said nothing, his gaze firm and steady on hers.
“He said I was special, but that the world would try to hurt me. He told me about my tattoo and the way all seventhborns were treated, and he promised to protect me while teaching me to increase my powers. In spite of my state, he offered me his arm. I was young and stupid and scared, and with a simple gesture, he gained my trust.
“I shouldn’t have trusted him so easily, but”—she shrugged, a sad smile on her lips—“he was beautiful and kind and brilliant, and in weeks, I’d learned so much, and my reserves grew. All I wanted was for him to be pleased with me, but then he changed.”
Her smile fell. Hot pinpricks bloomed along her body, the memory of his savageness alive on her skin. She approached the impressions slowly, each step dragging her deeper into memory. “He began to drain my powers, claiming that my magic was a sin and what he did was to save my soul. I felt like death afterward, unable to eat or walk. Deep down I knew what he did wasn’t right, and one day, in a moment of clarity, I refused…”
Her chin quivered, hot tears spilling from her eyes. “Whereas once his touch was gentle, it became vicious and cruel.” She pointed to the impressions of the dead girls. “He turned me into nothing more than a body. It was then I realized he built me up for the sole purpose of later breaking me and draining me.”
“A warlock,” Barrington said.
She nodded. “He made himself out to be a pious saint, but he was evil incarnate, and my greatest mistake. So you see, I do not fear a touch because my virtue was stolen. I gave that to him freely.” She swallowed, the sight of the impressions blurred behind her tears. “My magic and humanity, however…”
Fingertips brushed her arm. Gasping, Sera flinched back.
Barrington startled and retracted his hand. “That was careless. I’m sorry,” he said with some difficulty, his hand taut on the handkerchief he had intended to offer her. “And for the things I’ve said in the past.”
She shrugged, just barely, and gazed back to the impression. “You knew only what the Aetherium put in my file, but now you know the truth. Noah found me and drained me until I finally came to my senses, and in a manic flare of magic, I killed him and burned his house down around him. That’s when the Aetherium took me in and shortly after brought me to the Academy.” She motioned to the worktable. “But while he may be dead, I can’t have what happened to me and these girls happen to another witch, seventhborn or not. That is why I don’t mind your lectures on ciphers and summonings and anything else you want to talk about. I know I can be impatient at times, but it is only because I want to learn. I want you to teach me.”
Barrington stared at her in silence, and Sera found it impossible to breathe as she waited for his reaction. Had she shared too much? Did he somehow think her used and tarnished? Still, she steeled her spine and stood there, firm, her heart both heavy with worry and light from secrets revealed. She would not fear Noah’s ghost, should he come again. She would not be afraid of Barrington’s rejection, should he issue it. With or without him, she would become an inspector and find her family. With or without him, she would protect seventhborns from monsters like Noah.
He nodded once, his jaw clenching and hands in taut fists. “Thank you, for trusting me.”
He moved to the worktable and, picking up his wand, tapped the spirit lamp, and a flame whooshed to life. “We will begin with the basic construction of a cipher…”
…
For the next days, once her classroom studies were complete, she and Barrington studied symbols, compared impressions against the results of their experiments, ruled out possibilities of what “puppets” could mean, and shared the pleasures of simple conversation. Sera learned how mere lines on a cipher could change an entire spell and what different shapes upon a cipher meant. They spoke at length and experimented for longer, absorbed in magic and death to where nothing else existed…until days later Sera arrived to Barrington standing at his desk, her veiled hat in his hands.
She reached out and took the hat, her pulse quickened. “Are we to interrogate another witness?”
“Sadly there is no one left for us to interview this time.” He stopped at the door, his frown deepened. “Two more bodies have been found.”