I have arranged to have you moved to lovely housing in Bathe Hall. You’ll have a private room waiting for you there, and will only need to share the spacious common area with a quiet Gardnerian scholar and one Elfin girl (to fulfill the University’s ridiculous integration rules).
Both the room and the common area boast a beautiful view of Verpax’s Central Gardens. You’ll have your own lady’s maid, as well as a private dining area with the menu of your choice. It’s warm and comfortable in Bathe Hall—nothing like the North Tower with winter fast approaching, I would imagine.
After you move, I will promptly take over your University tithe, which will relieve you of any need to work in the kitchens.
All you need to do is fast to Lukas Grey.
Once you are safely fasted to Lukas, you can put this unfortunate and frightening chapter behind you as a harsh but necessary lesson in the realities of the world we Gardnerians are faced with.
Please do not write again until that felicitous occurrence has taken place. Once it does, the Lodging Mistress has instructions to move you to your new lodging immediately.
Your attentive aunt,
Vyvian
I crumple the letter in my fist and toss it out the North Tower’s hallway window.
Stubbornly set on the harder path, I shoulder on.
*
One evening I spot Lukas with Fallon Bane outside the main dining hall, her military guard hanging back a bit. I feel a stab of jealousy so strong, I almost drop the basket of warfrin root I’m lugging.
You’ve no reason to be jealous, I chastise myself. You’ve no claim on him.
Quickly spotting me, Fallon gives me a once-over as she takes in my mussed appearance—my flyaway, sweat-soaked hair and hands stained warfrin green right up to the wrists. She shoots me a gloating, triumphant look and makes a point of putting her hand on Lukas’s shoulder.
Maybe he’s decided to view her magical affinities as exciting after all, I bitterly consider. It’s been over two weeks since I last saw him and vowed to stay away, intimidated by his aggression and his fiery magic, as well as Fallon’s territorial claim on him.
Lukas turns and catches my eye.
My stomach clenches into a tight knot as I remember the warm, seductive feel of his kiss, the overwhelming power of his magic. I force my gaze from his before he can detect any of the hurt in my expression and hurry away.
A few nights later I find a bundle of violin music waiting for me on the stone bench in the North Tower’s hallway. It’s by a composer Lukas knows I admire, written out in the composer’s own hand and signed with a flourish. I feel a sharp pang of regret as I hold Lukas’s gift in my medicine-encrusted hands.
We fit together, Lukas and I. Fire to fire. Branches twining tight.
I think back to Aunt Vyvian’s letter and how much my situation would improve if I gave in and fasted to Lukas.
But that black fire of his. It’s too much.
I shake my head as I flip through the music ruefully.
It’s no use. Rafe is right about Lukas Grey. Affinity match or no, he’s too powerful, too unpredictable. And too worldly for me.
He belongs with Fallon Bane.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Revenge
“It is the nature of Icarals to draw evil and tribulation into the world,” Priest Simitri gently tells me as I wipe away tears, once again lingering behind after his lecture has ended.
I love Priest Simitri’s classes. Unlike Guild Mage Lorel, who is fair but dauntingly stern, Priest Simitri is refreshingly full of smiling excitement for both his subjects, ecstatic over all things flora as well as the grand sweep of Gardnerian history.
And he’s not only an enthusiastic and patient teacher, he’s become my supportive confidant, as well—as kind to me as Uncle Edwin.
Sniffling, I look past Priest Simitri’s shoulder to the oil painting that dominates the lecture hall—two Gardnerian soldiers, wands drawn, boldly facing off against four red-eyed Icarals with black wings unfurled. Outnumbered by Icarals. Just like me.
I sniff again and nod, keenly aware of how exhausted I am, like an anchor sunk to the ocean’s great depths. “The Icarals frighten me,” I tell him. “I’m...I’m not sleeping well.”
He nods in grave understanding and squeezes my arm. “Stay strong, Elloren. The Golden Age is coming. The Black Witch will rise, and she will smite them all. The Icarals, the Kelts, the shapeshifters—all the infidel races.”
Yes, but if it’s Fallon Bane, she might smite me, too.
His eyes are fixed on me, intent on my absorbing the full weight of the Prophecy. I want to take solace in his words as I rub at the scar encircling my wrist. I want to believe that there’s another Black Witch on her way to usher in a world without cruelty and evil. But I can feel myself succumbing to doubt and a darker and darker melancholy.
Reluctant as I am to go against my uncle’s wishes, I know that if nothing changes, I will eventually buckle and fast to Lukas Grey—or practically anyone my aunt wants—just to get out of my North Tower dungeon.
*
That evening I find myself passed out in the kitchen, the side of my face down on a blueberry tart I’m supposed to be assembling. The sticky berry jam is all over my cheek, temple and hair as my eyes flutter open. I’ve no idea how long I’ve been lying there. Everyone is long gone, save Iris Morgaine. Yvan enters the kitchen from outside, a load of wood in his arm for tomorrow morning’s fires. I freeze, not wanting to alert them to my presence.
Iris bounds over to Yvan as he drops the firewood onto the kitchen’s wood rack. “Here, taste this,” she playfully flirts, offering up a piece of pastry to him.
“My hands are filthy,” he says with a slight smile.
“Just open your mouth,” she cajoles, her voice sultry. She leans into him and holds the food up to his lips.
He awkwardly complies, and she slides the food into his mouth, letting her thumb linger on his lower lip to wipe away a small smear of berry.
He’s so attractive when he’s not busy glaring at me, his full lips so at odds with the sharp lines of his face, his eyes like sunlight through green glass. I’m momentarily overwhelmed by how handsome he is.
I remind myself that he’s a Kelt, likely no different from the boy who seduced Sage into breaking her wandfasting. There’s also the undeniable fact that he can’t stand the sight of me.
“What do you think?” Iris asks, still leaning into him.
“It’s good,” he mumbles through the food, his eyes intense on her.
“Would you like more?” It’s clear from her tone that she’s not only offering up the pastry.
Yvan swallows as if mesmerized.
“Oh, I got some on your chin,” she purrs.
He steps back a fraction. “It’s okay.”
Undaunted, she reaches up with one hand to stroke pastry crumbs off his chin, then leans in to playfully nuzzle his neck.
He freezes uncomfortably and looks to be fighting off a whole range of powerful emotions. “Iris...”
A surge of hateful jealousy courses over me, seeing them like this.
Here I am, with a whole pan of berry tart stuck to my head and my tongue stained blue from boswillin tincture to ward off a persistent chest cold from sleeping in an icy tower. My general appearance is a shambles these days—even the fine clothes Aunt Vyvian bought me can’t disguise the sorry state I’m in. Watching Iris Morgaine, the girl who once attacked me, having so much fun with absurdly gorgeous Yvan Guriel adds a spark to a resentment so raw, its force surprises me. I want to burst into tears and throw the bowl of jam at them all at the same time.
As if sensing my rancid thoughts, Yvan’s gaze shifts to rest hard on me. A mortified flush sears my face.
I pull my head off the tart, humiliated by the indentation my face has left in the jam and dough.
Iris spots me as well, every trace of playfulness erased from her expression. She whispers something into Yvan’s ear.
“No, I didn’t know she was here,” he says, his eyes still riveted hard on mine.
Iris hisses something else at him and then storms out, slamming the door behind her.
Yvan is still glaring at me hotly, reveling in my wretched state, no doubt—the powerless granddaughter of Carnissa Gardner, brought so terribly low.