“He was top of your class. Brilliant, I’m told.” Lizaveta tilted her head to the side, studying Emory like a cat assessing her prey. “Yet you survived and he did not.”
The silence hung heavy around them, as if the crackling fires and crashing waves and bouts of conversation were suddenly muffled, distant things.
“What’s your point?” Emory asked tightly.
“I just find it odd that most students who drowned were all top of their class. The best at the magic they specialized in. The Azula twins were in some of my advanced Waxing Moon classes despite being first-years. Romie Brysden was said to be the most prolific Dreamer of our generation. That Dioré girl was a fucking Wardcrafter; her protective magic alone should’ve been strong enough to save everyone, even through bloodletting. And then there’s Emory Ainsleif, a decent enough Healer, but nothing special, if rumors are to be believed. Mediocre at best. Yet the only one who made it out alive.”
Emory’s cheeks burned furiously.
Mediocre.
The word stung more than she cared to admit. All her life, she’d felt lacking where magic was concerned. She was mediocre, had never been the best at healing. She’d fought tooth and nail to earn her place at Aldryn, kept her head buried in books all through prep school because if she was doomed to be average at mastering the practical side of her magic, at least acing the theory behind it might give her a leg up.
Romie had been the complete opposite; everything seemed so innate for her. Emory had envied the effortless ease with which she mastered her own magic. In truth, she’d envied a lot of things about Romie. Call it the result of years standing in her shadow, of being an unnamed entity, wholly unremarkable compared to the bold and magnetic Rosemarie Brysden. While Romie was the life of any party, Emory usually stayed quiet and withdrawn in groups, intimidated by the way everyone around her had such smart opinions, witty retorts, and well-informed worldviews. It made her feel inadequate, like she had nothing of note to contribute. Of course, she wasn’t like that when she was alone with Romie, who would always try to coax that chattier, more self-assured version of her out when they were in larger groups. A social crutch Emory had gladly depended on.
Romie had the sort of effect on people that Emory always wanted for herself, like a dream that washed over them and wouldn’t let go. Always the most interesting person in a room, the funniest and liveliest and loudest in the best possible way, Romie knew exactly what to say and how to act, no matter who she was with. Being her best friend was enough to make Emory feel important. After all, she got to see a side of Romie no one else ever did, was privy to all her secrets and most sacred thoughts. She was the one Romie depended on to talk some sense into her when she was being too impulsive, the one Romie shared her deepest fears with when the rest of the world believed her to be fearless.
No one would ever dare call Romie mediocre.
Before Emory could say anything, Lizaveta waved a hand in the air. “Oh, but don’t mind me. Why anyone would risk their life going in those Tides-damned caves is beyond me, that’s all. Honestly, what’s the point?”
Virgil coughed on the sip he was taking, bubbles sprouting from his nose. Lizaveta took the bottle from him with a sly smile.
What’s the point?
It was exactly what Emory had asked herself every day since Dovermere. She dared to look at Keiran now, hoping to find some sort of answer on his face. It betrayed nothing as he looked between Virgil and Lizaveta with a faint smile of his own.
Virgil mastered himself enough to say, “There’s no point, Liza. Just foolish freshmen with their silly little initiations, same as every other year.”
“We’ve heard of the odd drowning over the years, sure, but this? Eight students at once? That’s no coincidence.” Lizaveta brought the bottle to her lips and looked at Emory. “So why did you go into those caves?”
Emory still wasn’t entirely sure. She told herself it was worry that had prompted her to follow Romie, concern for her friend and the odd way she’d been acting. Curiosity, too, for why would Romie be summoned to Dovermere, of all places? She never did figure out who or what S.O. stood for, nor why Romie had kept all of this from her in the first place.
And perhaps that had been the biggest factor of all: this underlying bitterness at the fact that her supposed best friend was keeping all these secrets from her. Resentment at not being included. Jealousy, this ugly, vicious beast that weighed shamefully on her now.
All she knew was that she’d gone after her in those caves despite every bone in her body protesting at the rashness of it all.
Emory remembered her labored breathing and erratic heartbeat as she wound deeper through the network of caverns, remembered standing transfixed at the mouth of the Belly of the Beast, watching as Romie and the others stepped onto the natural platform at the center of the vast grotto. There, a giant stalactite and an equally large stalagmite reached toward each other, linked by a fragile thread, like an hourglass that had withstood the tides’ whims since the beginning of time. Water trickled down the length of it, the wet rock striated with veins of silver, and at the base of the stalagmite was a great spiral carved in the stone, the ancient symbol resembling a conch, or a wave curling in on itself. Silver flowed toward it, hugging its curve like the deliberate brushstroke of some long-forgotten drowned god.
Lia Azula, a Waxing Moon student, had walked up to it as if in a trance. “I can’t believe it’s actually real,” she’d muttered, reverentially stroking the stone.
Her twin, Dania, had huffed. “I don’t think it was ever a question of whether the Hourglass was real or not but whether it can actually do what it’s supposed to.”
“So let’s get on with it.” This from Quince Travers, who’d been glancing impatiently at his watch, a greenish tint to his pale face. “Who knows how long we have left.”
“Relax, there’s like six hours between low and high tides,” Jordyn had laughed, hitting Travers hard on the back. “We’re swimming in time, Travy.”
“The only thing we’ll be swimming in is the tide that’s going to kill us all when it comes in quicker than expected,” Travers bit back. “This place messes with time. And don’t call me Travy, jerk.”
“Ass.”
“Boys,” Romie had warned loudly, extending her arms between the two of them. “If you’re quite finished, we have a ritual to perform. You can keep bickering like an old married couple once we’re out of here and everyone’s drunk enough to tolerate you. Got it?”
Romie’s tone had caught Emory off guard. Here was the Romie she knew and loved, with the snark and take-charge attitude that had disappeared the more secretive she’d grown. Still, Emory knew her well enough to notice the underlying tension in her words, the set of her jaw.
Romie was nervous—which could only mean something far more sinister was at work here.
The eight of them formed a circle around the rock, a perfectly unbroken cycle of the moon’s phases: Travers and Serena of House New Moon, Dania and Lia of House Waxing Moon, Daphné and Jordyn of House Full Moon, and Harlow and Romie of House Waning Moon. Each of them had produced a knife and sliced across their right palm, and there was nothing Emory could do but watch, biting down hard on her lip, as blood dripped down their hands. In unison, the students stepped forward and brought their bloodied hands flush against the rock, intoning what sounded like a prayer.
“To Bruma, who sprang from the darkness. To Anima, whose voice breathed life into the world. To Aestas, whose bountiful warmth and light protect us all. To Quies and the sleeping darkness she guides us through at the end of all things.”