“The children’s book?” Keiran arched a brow. “Why would you think that?”
It suddenly felt silly; of course, Romie’s death had nothing to do with a book. She was letting Baz’s obsession cloud her own judgment. “That’s the thing: I don’t know what to think,” she said. “You invited me here with the promise of answers, remember?”
Keiran leaned ever so closer, making her stomach flip. “Didn’t I say you would have to earn them?”
His breath was warm and smelled of whiskey. Her eyes dropped to his lips, that maddening smile full of ease and confidence and sensuality. The world narrowed to the two of them, until a loud voice ripped them apart.
“Keiran! There you are.”
A man with auburn hair and faint reddish stubble clasped Keiran on the shoulder. He couldn’t be much older than them, yet he carried himself with authority.
Keiran smiled widely as they embraced. “Good to see you, Artie.”
Artie turned to Emory. Blue irises so pale they were almost white peered at her from the eye holes of his Anima mask. “And who is this stunning creature?”
Something in his tone made her skin crawl.
Keiran brushed her arm. “Emory Ainsleif, this is Artem Orlov. He was a few years older than me when I got initiated.”
“Taught him everything he knows,” Artem said with a wink. “You probably know my younger sister, Lizaveta.”
Of course. The resemblance was uncanny, even with the mask. Especially the eyes.
“I know her, all right,” Emory said sweetly. And she hates me for no apparent reason.
Artem’s smile never wavered as he took in her Bruma mask and the New Moon sigil on her hand. “Emory Ainsleif. The girl who bested Dovermere, I’m told.” He extended a hand. “A pleasure.”
Emory shook his hand, only for him to flip her wrist over and peer at her spiral mark. He looked at Keiran with narrowed eyes. “You mean to present her to the Tidal Council.”
Keiran knocked back the last dregs of his drink. “She wants to plead her case.”
Artem dropped her hand with a hum. “Well. Seems we might get a new initiate this year after all.” He didn’t appear too pleased at the prospect. “I think the last of the Council should have arrived by now. I’ll let them know you’re here.”
He clasped Keiran on the shoulder again, nodding at Emory with a hint of disdain. Some of the tightness in her shoulders eased as he strode away.
“Is he part of this Tidal Council I need to impress?” she asked Keiran.
“No. The Council is made up of the four oldest Selenics, one of each lunar house. The title can only go to those who were leaders of their cohort when they were at Aldryn. Artem was his cohort’s leader, so he will be on the Council one day, just not yet.”
“Who’s the leader of the cohort now?” At Keiran’s smile, she arched a brow. “You?”
“You sound surprised.”
“No, I just… didn’t know.”
All of it made sense. Why Romie had walked into his dreams and not Nisha’s, who she was already close with and had better access to. Why Keiran was at Dovermere Cove waiting for the initiates—his initiates—to come out of the caves. Emory suddenly noticed the way people kept stealing glances his way, as if he were as beloved as Aestas herself. She recalled the night he found her on the beach, how anchoring he’d been—a light in the dark—and thought she understood what they saw in him.
Just then, Virgil came up to them holding a small pouch with the sigil of House Waxing Moon stitched on the indigo velvet. “Who wants a party favor?”
Nisha was right behind him, arms crossed and looking at Virgil with her nose upturned in mild disdain. Emory watched him dig out a tiny flake of something silvery from the pouch and set it on his tongue. It dissolved before her eyes. Virgil turned his face to the ceiling-less sky and intoned in a voice laced with theater, “Youthful Anima, bestow upon me the powers of your tides.”
Her heart pounded in her chest. “What is it?”
A booming laugh. “What is it, she asks. Oh, to be so innocent.”
Emory felt her cheeks burn so hot she wished to disappear.
“It’s just a party trick, really,” Nisha said.
“An expensive and illicit party trick,” Virgil amended, “so best you keep quiet about what you see here, Healer, yeah?”
What Penelope had said about exclusive parties and weird magics came back to her. “What does it do?”
“It’s a way to bend the rules of magic so we can know what other alignments feel like,” Nisha explained. She jerked her chin at a group of Selenics who were sampling the food with such elation, they seemed to be having a religious experience. “This one uses Amplifier magic to sharpen the senses.”
Emory frowned at the Selenics around her. Most of them had the same air of mindless wonder about them, like they were seeing the world in color for the first time. Whatever this thing was bent the rules of magic, sure enough, but it was a far cry from what she could do, from what she’d seen Keiran doing too. Healing the bird, making roses bloom—that kind of magic had been purposeful. Deliberate. Whatever this was felt exactly like Nisha said: a mere party trick for those who couldn’t do the real thing.
Keiran was watching her carefully, his features hidden beneath the mask, but the meaning in his eyes was plain enough: this wasn’t the same thing she’d seen him do. And if Virgil was resorting to such measures, perhaps the Sower magic she’d glimpsed in the greenhouse had only been Keiran’s doing, no one else’s.
Could it be that only she and Keiran could do such magic at will?
She contemplated the bag still in Virgil’s hand. “So it lets anyone use Amplifier magic?”
“You can’t actually manipulate the magic,” Nisha supplied. “It’s more just an impression of it. A small taste of magic without any real sustenance.”
“And what a glorious, painfully fleeting taste it is,” Virgil mused. “Nothing like the s—”
“The Tidal Council has all arrived,” Lizaveta interrupted, showing up at their side. She gave Emory and Keiran a cold once-over. “They’re waiting for you.”
Time to prove herself, Emory thought. Keiran gave her a small nod of encouragement and guided her in the right direction, his hand hovering at the small of her back. It felt oddly grounding.
Four people sat on high-backed chairs fit for kings in front of a large archway, watching Emory like a council of regal owls. Their heads were crowned with their house’s lunar flowers, making them look like ancient deities against the backdrop of the night sky, with the curtains billowing softly around them and a carpet of ivy at their feet.
The first was a tall, reedy man in an emerald three-piece suit wearing Bruma’s face and a crown of black narcissus; the second was Keiran’s great-aunt Leonie, an arrangement of indigo hollyhocks now sitting atop her silver hair; the third was a smiling man wearing Aestas’s face, a brilliant wreath of white orchids resting on his dark curls; and the fourth was Vivianne, the Memorist that Keiran had pointed out to her, towering over the rest of them with a bouquet of purple-black poppies crowning her head.
Keiran led Emory to stand before the Council. The rest of the Order members threw curious looks their way. As if sensing something noteworthy was about to happen, they moved closer, fanning out into a semicircle around them. Their murmurs were unsettling, and Emory was glad for her mask again as some thirty porcelain faces stared at her.
A hush settled over the lighthouse.
“Whatever happens,” Keiran breathed at her side, “I’ve got your back.”
His words were more comforting than she cared to admit. Still, Emory had never been this nervous. This was it. Her fate to be decided by the Tides themselves, or their likeness, at least. She felt like a wave rushing inevitably toward the shore, unsure if she’d shatter against a barrier of rock or sigh gently across welcoming sands, unnerved as she was by the four porcelain faces staring blankly at her.