The thought was at once thrilling and unbearable, because all Emory saw was the selenograph saying she now belonged to House Eclipse. All she could think of was that this magic made her wrong. She wanted to burn the spiral mark off her skin and pray it took these gifts with it.
And yet, even as all those feelings churned inside her, she felt a small glimmer of excitement, too. This sense of rightness that had started when she’d reached for the Darkbearer magic in the library—a risk she’d taken only because Baz was there, and she trusted him to turn back time if she got out of control, like he did at the bonfires. That sense of rightness only kept growing the more she read about each alignment. She couldn’t deny the curiosity that vibrated through her now, this itch to try all of it, to reach for these magics that could be hers if she wanted.
She did stop reading long enough to meet Penelope in Noviluna Hall for a late-night selenography study session. The library there was as somber as a new moon sky, with two stories of polished dark wooden shelves lined with narrow ladders, a domed ceiling accentuated with silver filigree, and gleaming black marble floors.
It was beautiful in an austere way, calling to mind a winter’s night; in fact, a permanent chill permeated the library, as if the dead themselves lingered, out of sight for all but the Shadowguides who might commune with them. The long tables in the middle of the main alley were dotted with frosted everlight lamps and lanterns of varying shapes and sizes, their suffused light casting the place in a silvery blue glow. It would have been an unpopular place among students if it weren’t for the thick, luxurious furs that covered the benches, the baskets of woolly blankets found at each table, and, perhaps above all, the coffee and hot cocoa cart at the entrance of the library that made the whole place smell divine.
Emory stifled a yawn as she looked up, bleary-eyed, from her selenography textbook. She and Penelope were among the last few students here. The other girl was engrossed in an old leatherbound journal from a long-ago Darkbearer, content to sit here with Emory while she studied for her selenography exam. She had even indulged Emory’s questions earlier about all things Darkbearer magic, without so much as batting an eye as to her sudden curiosity. It was as if they’d picked up where they’d left off last term, going back to their old routines, and Emory was grateful for this small slice of normalcy.
She’d had quite enough of selenography for one evening, though, and longed to get back to her room so she could keep reading An Introduction to Alignments in private.
“I think I’m calling it a night.”
Penelope blinked up at her. “Want me to walk with you?”
“It’s fine. I wouldn’t want to tear you away from your book.”
“It is rather riveting. This Darkbearer could manipulate her own shadow to do her bidding and used it to spy on people at her queen’s request. Can you imagine?” She shook her head in awe. “I’m barely able to fully cloak myself in darkness.”
Emory knew Penelope, like herself, grappled with feelings of mediocrity when it came to her magic. Darkbearers had a less practical alignment than most—much like Purifiers and their balancing of energies, which didn’t always translate well into the real world. There was a certain unspoken hierarchy to the alignments, magics viewed as elite and those that were less so. Students whose abilities garnered enough attention from talent scouts usually pursued postgraduate studies with full scholarships to the best magic universities and obtained the highest-ranking magically inclined jobs on the market. Meanwhile, students with less desirable alignments might end up going to regular university after Aldryn to pursue careers outside of their magic, much like those who didn’t have enough magic to warrant collegiate studies to begin with.
With a wistful sigh, Penelope turned back to her book. “I think I’ll stay here a while to finish reading. See you tomorrow?”
“See you tomorrow,” Emory echoed, shouldering her bag. “Good night, Nel.”
The hallway outside the library was just as dark and empty, illuminated by a few silver sconces of dim everlight. Her steps were muffled by the thick navy rug that ran the length of the main corridor, so it came as a shock to hear the sudden clink of keys hitting the floor just around the corner. Someone swore softly. Emory slowed as the intersecting corridor came into view.
She recognized Keiran even with his back turned to her. She’d kept her eyes peeled for him these past couple of days, intent on confronting him about the microfilm he’d left her, without any luck. And here he now was, standing before the door to the archives—which the archivists kept locked at this hour.
Odd, she thought, that Keiran should have a key.
He inserted it into the antique-looking knob in the center of the door and disappeared inside without a backward glance.
Emory slipped in after him, careful not to make a sound. He’d turned only a few of the lights on and was making his way to the back of the archives, looking all too at ease in a place he should not have been. Emory watched him rifle through a cupboard and take out a pile of thin, flat wooden cases, which he then gently set on a nearby table. He opened one and bent over its contents with a magnifying glass.
“Keeping tabs on me, Ainsleif?”
She froze. Keiran looked at her over his shoulder, eyes glimmering with amusement. Trying to keep her cool, she stepped out of the shadows like she’d meant for him to see her all along.
“Just seeing what other illicit tricks you have up your sleeve. More birds that need healing, maybe?”
“I’m afraid last time was all the avian generosity I had in me.”
“A shame for the birds.”
His mouth lifted in that boyish grin of his, making it difficult to remember why she was here. She came to stand beside the table and looked at what was inside the suede-lined wooden case: a silver plaque that looked like an antique mirror, its surface so tarnished it resembled a mottled, overcast sky.
Emory raised a brow. “You snuck in here like a fiend to look at dirty mirrors?”
“Not mirrors, photographs. And it isn’t sneaking if you have a key.”
“Which you oh so conveniently have on you.”
A dimple deepened in his cheek. “I might have convinced the dean to let me come in here after hours.” He gave her a teasing look. “I usually work best undisturbed.”
“And what exactly is it you’re working on?”
Keiran leaned back in his chair, pointing to the photograph. “Somewhere beneath all that tarnish is a picture. It’s one of the oldest forms of photography, where pictures were captured on these silver-plated sheets of copper and revealed when exposed to mercury vapors. The technique is a fascinating one, but as you can see, it hasn’t held up well over time. Art conservators and restorers have been racking their brains trying to figure out ways to restore them, but even wiping gently at the surface damages the image particles.” He gave her a sheepish smile. “So I’m putting my Lightkeeper skills to the test and developing a method of restoration through concentrated light exposure.”
Emory lifted a brow. She couldn’t help but be impressed—this was the kind of magic that garnered attention and accolades. Keiran seemed so… knowledgeable. Meanwhile, she was struggling to catch up on basic selenography concepts.
With his elbows on the table, he bent toward her. “You see,” he said, “no illicit tricks here.”
Her cheeks warmed at his sudden closeness, the way his eyes caught on her lips. She was sure he was only trying to disarm her, to keep her from asking questions he didn’t want to answer. Two could play this game, though. She fluttered her lashes at him, ran a hand along one of the wooden cases. The way he tracked the movement made her pulse race, giving her the confidence to say, “The Selenic Order must be proud to have you in its ranks.”
A slow smile. “You did your research.”
Her stomach made a pleasant flip at his appreciative tone. “I had help.” She leaned back against the table. “Someone left a rather telling microfilm for me to find.”
He arched a brow. “Did they now?”