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?”
“Strange, for someone so tight-lipped to suddenly be so forthcoming.”
“Maybe this someone was simply trying to be kind.”
“Why?” She searched his face for a trace of something real. “You don’t owe me anything. You’re clearly part of this secret society and either don’t want to or can’t tell me anything about it since you keep answering my questions in circles. So why help?”
Keiran’s smile turned wistful then as he said, “Let’s just say I know what it’s like to lose a friend to Dovermere. To want answers so badly you risk losing yourself.”
Emory blinked back her surprise. She saw in him the haunted look of someone who was well acquainted with grief. A raw sort of understanding passed between them. She had the sudden urge to reach for his hand.
“Farran Kaine,” she murmured, thinking of the photograph she’d seen in the paper, the cropped-out person standing next to Farran. Now that Keiran was in front of her, it was painfully obvious it had been him. “Is that who you lost?”
His throat bobbed almost imperceptibly at the name, but it was all Emory needed to know she was right.
“He was the closest thing I had to a brother,” Keiran said quietly. “We grew up together in Trevel, went to the same prep school, came to Aldryn hoping to achieve greatness together. We were nearing the end of our freshman year when he…”
“When you went to Dovermere together, trying to get into the Selenic Order?” Emory finished for him. “And he drowned just like the others did last spring.”
Keiran didn’t deny it.
Anger suddenly sparked in her—anger at the Selenic Order, at anyone who thought risking their lives in such a way was a worthy cause. Still, she couldn’t help but feel for him. They’d both lost a friend in Dovermere, had survived what Romie and Farran had not. The difference was, Keiran knew why. He was privy to that information while she was kept in the dark, wondering why anyone would let the same deadly ritual happen year after year, evidenced by the long list of names at the Tides’ feet.
“So why do it? Why risk your lives for this?” She clutched her marked wrist to her chest, nails digging into that blasted spiral. “Having these other magics running through our veins… It’s wrong.”
He contemplated her before saying, “Some might say we should be allowed to know more than just a fraction of the moon’s might, the way it was before magic was splintered into lunar houses and tidal alignments. It certainly wasn’t wrong then. Why should it be now?”
Emory thought back to the Darkbearer magic she’d wielded in the library and couldn’t deny the appeal. This power—having all magics at her fingertips—she would give it all up in a second if it meant getting Romie back. But maybe embracing it was the only way forward, the only way to get the answers she so desperately needed to understand what, exactly, Romie and the others had died for. To know why she’d been spared too.