2
strange evening call
“No one’s persecuting seventhborns anymore,” Sera mumbled bitterly as she strode down the wide, arched corridor of the female dormitory where throngs of girls snickered, pointed, and whispered. Portraits of previous pupils lined the walls in gilt frames, and even they seemed to stare down at her with bright, jovial eyes and small grins.
Her hands tightened, cramped. How did Mary expect her to walk down the hall with these pompous hogs and not lose her temper? Anger-laced magic pricked her insides, little nudges to bend and break. To burn and destroy. She clutched The Unmitigated Truths of Seventhborns to her chest and stifled the urge. She couldn’t. Professor Barrington was right; one more strike and she would lose everything. All that waited if she got expelled was work as an Aetherium official’s secretary—if she were lucky. Seventhborns were often not.
She could always go against Aetherium law and become a medium. It was no secret a seventhborn’s magic was inclined to clairvoyance, empathy, auras, and the other types of Aether magic. But singular to seventhborn girls was the darker aspect of Aether magic—death, including the ability to see the dead.
There were rumors of seventhborns who chose to use this magic for personal gain through mediumship. They hosted secret séances, used their magic to evoke the dead through spirit boards, and told fortunes through crystal balls. Unfortunately, Sera’s connection to the Underworld was as dead as the people she would attempt to contact. Not that she minded. There were some dead she had no desire to see.
Sera pulled open her door, then slammed it shut behind her. She stomped up the stairs and into her tiny dim room in the dormitory’s tower. None of the other scholarship students were forced to live in such cramped and squalid quarters. It was small and damp, and her decor an amalgamation of broken and dated furniture, but it was hers. And on days like this, she treasured the solitude found within its four walls, however crumbling they were.
With a hefty sigh, she fell onto her chair, the legs wobbling under her weight. Her hard-set face gazed back at her from the metal pitcher in the center of the wooden worktable. She set down her book, dragged the jug close, and shook her head. Her fair skin was blotchy, and brown strands of her hair had slipped out from the bun on top of her head that was now askew thanks to Whittaker’s mistake.
“Never mind if I would have gotten hurt.” She brushed away the hairs that fell onto her face and wiped the smear of blood on her cheek. Hot tears pooled in her eyes, and her reflection blurred. “They wouldn’t have cared. No one does, and you must remember this.”
Hating the break in her voice, she set down the jug just as the bells tolled the hour.
Five.
If she was going to pass her Aetherium entrance assessment, she would need to increase her magic reserves. The exam was a tedious week-long affair, and fatigue simply wouldn’t do. She scrubbed away her tears, rose, and turned to lock the door. With Mary in the infirmary—no doubt milking the small cut for all it was worth—no one would come to see her. But better to be safe than sorry. The last thing she needed was to blast the poor girl by mistake if she came to visit, as she often snuck in to do.
Sera paused. A note had been slipped under her door. She frowned. Had it been there when she entered? She approached it slowly; no one ever left her notes.
Kneeling, she picked it up and held it to the light. It was addressed to her, though the handwriting was horrendous. She turned it over. A red wax seal kept the note closed, a scripted B embossed upon it. Sera hummed. She didn’t know anyone whose surname began with a B, no one who would write to her anyway.
She slid her finger under the seal and opened it.
My office at eight. Not one minute late.
Barrington
Sera eyed the words, then set the note down slowly on her lap. Barrington?
Before the thought had settled, the edges of the note erupted into flames. Sera yelped and thrust it off her lap. Licks of white fire devoured the page as it floated down. Soon all that remained was a small mound of ash and a charred sliver of paper, a B on its ash-stained facing.
She ran her eyes along the loops of the letter. Her nerves tangled the same. Why would Professor Barrington summon her? She’d never had him for any classes and hadn’t ever had any contact with the man before that afternoon—well, other than moving out of his way as all students did when he stalked across the campus wearing his usual black cloak and frown.
Unless he had seen her use wandless magic…
Sera leaned back against the door and covered her face with her hands, feeling sick. Maybe he’d been pressed for time that afternoon in the library, headed for class or a meeting, and hadn’t the time to consider her actions. But now he had, and he’d changed his mind. He wouldn’t save her at all. What for? She was nothing to him but a seventhborn.
…
Three hours later, Sera peeked out from under her hood and surveyed the fourth-floor corridor. The cold gusts of a November rainstorm had swallowed the torch flames, rendering the Academy hall a tunnel of shadows cut by intermittent shafts of moonlight. Curled into her cloak, she emerged from the staircase, reached the end of the hall, and rounded the bend. One door marked the end of the short hallway, a B carved into its dark oak.
Her fingers clenched. She had to knock, but the war between her mind and gut left her as frozen as the shadows lining the hall. Nothing good waited on the other side of that door. Of this she had no proof, but what good could come of being summoned by Professor Barrington?
She hauled in a breath and knocked on the Alchemy professor’s door.
“Come in,” he spoke from the other side.
Sera rubbed her fingers together and opened the door.
Firelight painted the room in dancing shades of amber and gold, yet Professor Barrington stood in the shadows of the curtained window like a man afraid of light. His face was downcast, focused on the book in his hands. He tapped a finger on his thin lips, his brow furrowed.
Sera cleared her throat. “You wished to see me, Professor?”
The rap of his fingers stopped, and he raised his head to her. “Yes, come in. Close the door behind you.”
Sera lowered her hood and entered the cramped room, closing the door. Shelves crowded the walls, stuffed with books upon books. Various tables were strewn about the room, their tops laden with multicolored jars, mortars, vials, and retorts. Whatever he had brewed last left the earthy scent of cinnamon lingering in the space.
Weaving her way through his mess, she sat before the desk dominated by more books and papers. Some sheets were crumpled into balls, others torn. Were it not for the iron-tipped legs on the table, she would have thought it all to be nothing more than a mound of books and parchment.
Barrington tossed the tome on his desk with a loud thud and sat. Slipping a brown file from somewhere within his mess, he flipped it open.
“I have heard much about you, Miss Dovetail.” He put on wired spectacles and stared at her in silence, as though waiting for a reply.
Sera opened her mouth. She closed it. There was no need to say she hoped it all to be good. The thick file before him proved otherwise.
“An orphan of notable raw power found after setting a building on fire.” He shook his head. “Careless.”
A flush crept into her cheeks, but she folded her hands on her lap and kept her silence. No matter how many times she explained the incident, she would still be found at fault.
He flipped to the next page. “Highly emotional, insubordinate, and confrontational—heavens. Nearly burned down the library in an argument…twice.” He turned a page and the next.
Blowing out a sigh, he shut the file and pushed it away as if having touched something toxic. “Surprisingly, none of this is your worst fault.” He motioned to the seventhborn tattoo at her wrist, a thin black line that wrapped around the flesh like a shackle. “Yet, in spite of this, it says here that you’ve chosen to pursue one of the most challenging positions in the Aetherium. You aspire to become an inspector. Why? You could pursue an Aether-related career. It would be much easier considering your…condition.”
Sera bristled. “I have no desire for telepathy or divination, sir. Majoring in Aether studies will keep me from all Metal, Fire, and Wood levels. Strength, defense, and law courses are all required to become an inspector.”
He scoffed. “I’m a professor, Miss Dovetail. I know how Aetherium course-levels work. But that still doesn’t explain why you want to become an inspector.”
Sera hauled in a steadying breath. The man was a beast, but she wouldn’t lose her temper.
“I’m interested in becoming an inspector and applying my studies to finding out more about my family—”
A low laugh rumbled in his throat, the amber firelight reflected in his wolf eyes. “What’s there to know? Your mother died giving birth to you, as is the story with every other seventhborn that isn’t aborted.”
She tightened her hands in her lap, prickling heat crawling through her veins like knives beneath her skin. “Yes, but my father—”
“Gave you away in his heartbroken misery, surely.” He sighed away his laughter, slipped off his glasses, and set them on the desk. “You should thank him for being so kind. Many of you are found dead.”
Hot tears stung her eyes, but she forbade them to fall. Not here, before this despicable man. Sera summoned her strength and held her chin high. “Perhaps, but there are still—”
“Your siblings? Do you dream that at least one of them will forgive you for leaving them motherless, probably begging in the streets because their father was too drunk to hold down a position since his wife’s demise?” He sat back and pressed a finger to his thin lips, regarding her keenly. “I wonder if perhaps they should’ve added masochistic tendencies to your file as well.”
She bolted to her feet, and the hanging candelabras flared. “I beg your pardon, Professor, but if you asked me here to ridicule me or think I’m here for your amusement, then you’re a sadder man than I thought. Feel free to add that to my file.” She turned. Surely she’d hear from the headmistress at that—but, blast it all, the chances of her graduating were practically nonexistent, anyway. If the fire in the library hadn’t sealed her fate, surely breaking the statue of Patriarch Aldrich in the dining hall had.
“That’s it, then? That’s all it took to send you running?” He chuckled behind her. “To think I credited you with having more spine. I’m disappointed, really.”
Sera spun, heart crashing against her ribs. “Is this a game to you? You think what’s written there makes you an expert on my life? You know nothing about me.”
“And yet I know it all,” he said mildly, contrary to the darkness in his eyes. “I know that if you don’t control your anger, there is no way you will ever graduate or get the referral you need for the Aetherium entrance exam.” Barrington stood and, hands held behind his back, paced around his desk. “But run if you must. Just like getting angry, it’s your escape.” He stopped at the window and, with a finger, brushed aside the black velvet curtain as though to ascertain the sun was gone.
“And why do you care?” she asked, teeth clenched.
“Because you need a referral.” He slid off his teaching robe and hung it on the coat-tree by the window. Sitting on the edge of his desk, he clasped his hands in his lap and met her eyes. “A referral I’m willing to give you, in exchange for something, of course…”
Sera paused at the word “referral.” “Excuse me?”
“Surprising, yes, I know, but I believe this is an arrangement we will both enjoy greatly. You get the referral you need, and I get your services whenever I need them. A mutual benefit.”
Taking in his words, his stance, and his slow exhale as he regarded her, she flinched. Memories crept from the darkest pits in her mind, and the countless scars along her body tingled to life. She knew well how men treated seventhborns—mere things for their own wicked pleasures, to be used as if…as if they were something less than human.
“How dare you?” she seethed, trembling. “Regardless of what you think of seventhborns, I am a respectable woman. Never contact me again, or I swear upon my wand, I will set you on fire.” She made to leave.
“Well, this is surprising.” He spoke over the whoosh of her skirts and the taps of her boots on the hardwood floor.
“Despicable brute,” she muttered.
“I didn’t imagine you would reject my offer to refer you to the Aetherium…”
Sera pulled the door open. “Wayward boor—”
“…in exchange for your help on a case.”
She stopped.
“But,” he went on, “every day does come with its own surprises—”
She snapped the door shut and silenced him. “What do you mean help on a case?” She turned, yet still alert, she remained by the door.
“Well, in my spare time, I am a consultant of sorts and”—he motioned to his desk—“my workload is great. Sadly, there is only one of me.”
Sera frowned. “A tragedy.”
He clicked his teeth. “Indeed. It’s this terrible and tragic lack of me that has left me in need of an assistant. I invited you here to ask if you would be said assistant.” He straightened and ventured around his desk. “As payment, I would give you the referral needed for your exam. Seemed like a good idea when I thought of it, but, well”—he sighed heavily, adjusting his cuffs—“no respectable lady would ever associate with a despicable, wayward boor like myself. I should’ve known better, and I apologize. Good night, Miss Dovetail.”
Heat waved from her feet to the crown of her head. Oh, she could have thrown something at him, but she braced her spine and strode back to the chair. “Perhaps I’m not so respectable. What type of assistance will you need on this case?”
He held up a hand. “First, an order of business.”
He slipped his wand from within its holder at his waist and held it out to her. “This is an oath, and every word spoken in this meeting is for us alone and bound to secrecy between us. We have entered into this agreement freely and must both be in agreement to break it. Agreed?”
Sera brushed aside her cloak and drew her wand the same. She paused, her hold tight on the cool metal handle. Oaths were no small matter. If she uttered even a word of it, she could lose her ability to speak for years.
Yet she ran her gaze along his wand fashioned out of rosewood, then fixed on his ring. She would never hold a wand like his, and she would most certainly never wear an Invocation ring, if she didn’t first pass the Aetherium entrance exam to become an apprentice and then a proper witch.
More, an inspector.
But could she really trust this man?
She swallowed. It was a risk…
…and her only chance.
She touched her wand to his. “Agreed.”
His wand glowed blue as though he held a bolt of lightning. At once, his magic streamed into her wand and illuminated each thread of wood in blue. A warm sensation then tickled up her body, little pinpricks traveling from her belly to her fingertips. Her magic seeped out, crept up her wand, and overtook his, amber like the firelight. Their respective wands absorbed the foreign magic, their oath made.
Sera lowered her wand and exhaled. “Now then, Professor, what does this position entail exactly?”
Barrington sheathed his wand. “Murder.”
She blinked. “Murder?”
“Yes, yes, lots of it, in fact. Apparently it’s quite a profitable business,” he said with the ease of one speaking of the weather. “Our job is to investigate those no one seems to care for.”
“And why does an Alchemy professor care for murders?” she asked slowly. “Especially those no one else cares for?”
“The same reason you will care for them, Miss Dovetail. The same reason you’re here: need.” He snatched up a piece of paper. “Tomorrow, you’ll report to me at the same time, only you must come a different way. I can imagine the gossip if anyone sees you entering my office again and closing the door.” He held the page out to her. “You will use this spell. If you cannot execute it properly, I will find another assistant. If you knock on this door, I will find another assistant. If you ask anyone for help—”
“You will find another assistant. I know.”
“I was going to say it would break our oath, but also that.”
Sera rolled her eyes and took the paper. A protection circle dominated the page, and within it, a transfer spell. She eyed the chain of circular ciphers, each one containing parts of the travel coordinates. “But we aren’t allowed to use transfer spells without permission—”
“Permission granted.” He walked to the door and opened it. “Now, I have things to do. Dismissed.”
She tucked the spell into the pocket of her cloak and walked out into the hall. “Good night, Professor.”
He inclined his head once and closed the door between them.
Left alone in the newly settled night, Sera leaned back against the stone wall beside the door. What on earth had just happened? Her mind swam with questions, with words of agreements and murders and spells. With the infuriating Professor Barrington.
But however strange and inappropriate, one truth coaxed a smile from her lips: she had been wrong. Good had waited on the other side of that door.