“Didn’t he Collapse this summer?” At the quizzical look Baz shot her, Vera shrugged. “I keep tabs on everyone who comes inquiring after the epilogue. If he’s at the Institute, you won’t have much luck getting in this late.”
Baz wasn’t sure a cab driver would be willing to drive him all the way out there at this hour either. He swore. This inexplicable sense of urgency had him thinking this couldn’t wait, but it would have to. At least until the morning. He could find Jae then and take them up on their offer to go to the Institute together, trust that they could get them in past the Regulators.
“I can help get you in. Tonight, if you want.”
He stared at Vera. “How?”
She smiled at him like a cat as she shuffled toward a clunky motorbike leaning against the side of the building. “Let’s just say I know my way around wards and magical trip wires.” A wink as she hopped on. “I might not have enough Unraveler magic to bear my house’s sigil, but I always thought the drop of it I do have made me into a bit of an engineering genius.”
The engine sputtered to life beneath her, so loud Baz thought he misheard her next words. “It doesn’t hurt that I studied Institute buildings back at Trevelyan University. I can get you in and out without anyone ever knowing you were there.”
He barely caught the helmet she threw at him, too shocked to form thoughts. Vera looked at him expectantly.
“So do you want my help or not?”
For once in his life, Baz didn’t question it. He hopped on behind her.
13 EMORY
THE OLD LIGHTHOUSE STOOD AT the very top of the cliff that overlooked the Aldersea, half crumbled and ridden with vines of ivy. Warm, golden light flickered in the small glassless windows that dotted the tower, and though Emory saw shadows moving inside, the only sound that permeated the night was the deafening crash of waves below, as loud as the pounding in her ears. She felt like she was going to be sick, her skin flushed despite the cool bite of the wind.
She regretted having that wine.
Virgil must have sensed her apprehension. He nudged her gently, saying, “You’ll be fine.”
Emory was glad for his presence. Things had been tense since the greenhouse, with Lizaveta glaring at Keiran so intensely that it was a miracle she didn’t burn a hole in his skull, Nisha throwing Emory sidelong glances that felt loaded in a way she didn’t understand, and Keiran… Well. Keiran had quickly recovered and affected his usual cool demeanor, as if her presence didn’t bother him in the slightest and this was all part of his plan. Which irked her to no end. Virgil, at least, seemed wholly unbothered by it all. He’d stuck by her side and made pleasant conversation as they both sipped wine, and though it might have been a diversion to keep her from eavesdropping on the others’ hushed conversation, Emory was grateful for it all the same.
“What are these grand soirees usually like?” she’d asked him.
“Now, now,” Virgil had crooned, “that would spoil all the fun.”
As they stood in front of the lighthouse door, staring at the wrought-iron details of carved moons that formed a ring in its middle, Emory thought they must have very different ideas of what fun entailed.
With a grating sound, the full moon on the door suddenly slid upward, revealing a bright green eye peering at them through the opening.
“Marks,” came a honeyed voice.
The others lifted their wrists so the person could see their spirals. Emory followed suit. The eye blinked at them, and the full moon shutter closed over it once more.
A beat, and the door opened to reveal a woman in an elegantly flowing sage dress. The top half of her face was covered with a porcelain mask of Anima, Tide of the Waxing Moon. A mass of luscious dark curls fell down her back, studded with pearls that looked like stars. She grabbed each of their right hands in turn and ran a manicured finger along the slightly raised ridge of their spiral marks, as if to attest they were real. She then wordlessly handed each of them a porcelain mask of the Tide corresponding to their respective lunar house: a cherub-faced Bruma for Emory, a pair of rosy-cheeked Animas for Nisha and Lizaveta, motherly Aestas for Keiran, and the ever wise, wrinkled Quies for Virgil.
No Shadow masks, Emory noted with a hint of relief. They must all still honor their original lunar houses despite the Eclipse powers the spiral mark gave them.
Once they’d donned their masks, the woman ushered them inside and pointed to a narrow staircase. Nisha and Lizaveta went up first. Keiran looked at Emory expectantly. She couldn’t bring herself to move, suddenly feeling hot despite the cold porcelain on her skin.
Virgil appeared by her side, an easy smile on his lips. “Shall we?”
She took his proffered arm, glad to have something solid to hold on to. She wondered if that was a hint of jealousy she saw on Keiran’s face, but he turned and started up the stairs before she could make sense of it.
“Just be glad these masks leave our mouths uncovered,” Virgil commented. “All the better to drown your nerves in wine, my dear.”
She smiled, the knot of nerves in her stomach loosening ever so slightly.
On each floor up, classical music played from sets of enchanted instruments, no doubt bewitched with Wordsmith magic like the kind used in the Crescens library. White sheets covered the remnants of what used to be Lightkeeper classrooms, for the lighthouse had once been an extension of Pleniluna Hall before it started to crumble, pieces of it falling to the restless sea below. The tower was no longer in use now, bordered up and abandoned as it was—the perfect spot, it seemed, for such an exclusive party.
“Behold the Selenic Order,” Virgil said grandly once they reached the top. “Aldryn College’s most distinguished minds.”
There were about thirty people, so elegantly dressed they should have looked ridiculous standing in such a decrepit place. But the lighthouse had been transformed from bare-bones ruins to the height of opulence: tables groaned under an array of expensive bottles and carefully arranged platters of duck and foie gras, aged cheeses and oysters, with lit candles carelessly dripping wax between them; gauzy curtains hung in the windowless arches, dancing gracefully in the breeze; strings of tiny everlight bulbs were woven with the vines of ivy that crept through the windows and engulfed the walls and parts of the floor; and thick, richly patterned rugs covered the rickety floorboards, where people lounged against leather poufs and velvet cushions like ancient gods, all languid smiles and sensuous laughs as they clinked together crystal flutes and glasses. The thin crescent and its court of stars hung above them like a grand chandelier, visible through an opening where the roof had caved in.
Emory couldn’t help it: she was utterly seduced by the clothes and the drinks, the glamour and mystery of it all.
“Is it everything you expected it to be?” Virgil asked.
“I don’t know what I expected. Scholars in a dark room with whiskey and cigars, maybe? Animal sacrifices to the moon. Ritual drownings.”
“Ah, well. The night’s still young.” At the perplexed look she gave him, his mouth slanted upward. “Tides, I’m only joking. This is a time for celebrations, Healer. Lighten up.”
“What are they celebrating, anyway?”
Virgil swept two sparkling flutes from a nearby table and handed her one. “This is usually the night we introduce our selected initiates for the year. The eight freshmen who show the most potential.” He bent his head toward her and added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Or whose families have the deepest pockets or longest histories within the Order.”