Behind him, Dovermere loomed like some ominous death god, thrumming a sinister heartbeat. He was right, in a sense. She’d needed to see it, this place that haunted her nightmares. It didn’t seem as threatening as she’d imagined it would, with the Aldersea sighing beneath a muted sky as sparks from the bonfires danced upward like homebound stars.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat and gave Virgil a sad smile. “I figured I’d need to face it eventually.”
Was that a glimmer of sympathy she caught in Keiran’s gaze? She could use that to her advantage, make him see her as this lost, broken thing he might take pity on if that got him talking.
She took another sip and handed Lizaveta the bottle, noting the crescent-and-hollyhock sigil of House Waxing Moon on the back of her hand. Emory couldn’t recall what her tidal alignment was.
“The girl who bested Dovermere,” Lizaveta mused. There was something almost grudging in her eyes as she sized Emory up. “You must be some Healer to have survived the Beast.”
Emory’s nails dug into her palms. The Belly of the Beast. It was what students called the very deepest cave within Dovermere, the point of no return. Its name was an apt one, for like any starved beast, it had jagged teeth and a habit of swallowing whole those who got too close; those who believed they could best it.
Virgil took the bottle from Lizaveta and tipped it toward Emory with a wink. “Ah, but what is death to a Healer, hmm?”
“Healers aren’t impervious to death, Virgil.” Lizaveta scowled. “No one is. Not even you Reapers.”
She was right, and no one was impervious to the dangers of Dovermere, either. To slip into the Beast and out before the sea could rise to trap them inside was no small feat. Tides were fickle things, and time itself tended to lose all meaning in the damp and gloom of Dovermere. It could slip away at a moment’s notice, and once the sea came rushing in, there was no way out but through. No way to vanquish the Beast but with magic and luck.
Emory was blessed to have had both on her side that night. With the new moon reigning the sky, her magic had been at its peak, same as it had been for Quince Travers and Serena Velan, the other two House New Moon students who’d been in the caves—one a Healer, the other a Darkbearer. The rest of them would have had to resort to bloodletting to access their abilities, given that their magic lay dormant in their blood until their own moon phase came around.
But the tide had not given them a chance to even try, death sweeping in too fast for any of them to react. Even Emory couldn’t remember reaching for her healing magic.
“One of the drowned students was a Healer too. Quince Travers.” Lizaveta’s gaze pierced Emory. “Did you know him?”
A shock of ginger hair, big eyes gawking at her as the tide came crashing in.
Emory shifted uncomfortably. “A little.”
They’d had nearly all their classes together, both being freshmen in the same lunar house, with the same tidal alignment. She’d never gotten to know him much outside of that, though. He’d been rather haughty, preferring to spend his time alone or with equally elitist upperclassmen.
“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.