Baz ducked to the floor, swearing as he tugged on Emory’s sleeve. “Get down.”
She plopped down beside him, heart in her throat at the urgency in his voice. They pressed close to the wall, hidden below the windowpane as the doorknob turned and the door slowly pushed inward, creaking on its hinges.
“Nisha, come on!” someone outside yelled, their voice muffled. “We’re going to be late.”
There was a pause. Faint moonlight filtered in through the door standing ajar. It clicked shut after a tense moment, and the footsteps outside receded. In the distance, a light flickered on. Emory peered through the window. Four outlines were visible behind the clear glass panes of the adjacent greenhouse, cast in shadows by the soft light within.
She settled back against the wall and noticed Baz clutching his hand. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s glass on the floor,” he mumbled, holding up his hand. Bits of broken glass cut into his palm, blood welling from the wounds.
Emory grabbed his hand to study the damage. She managed to brush off most of the glass that had crumbled to dust, leaving several small bits and two bigger pieces wedged in his skin. As she took out the glass piece by piece, she let out a breathless laugh. “I can’t believe the one time you agree to let me use my magic, we almost get caught.”
Baz shot her an unamused look over the rim of his glasses. “It’s not funny. They could have seen us.”
“And? Look at the poor plant. It’s already wilted. No one would ever know I did any sort of magic to it.”
“Doesn’t mean we should be reckless about it.” Baz winced as she took out a longer shard. “Next time, we’re meeting in Obscura Hall.”
Emory arched a brow. “Next time?”
“Yeah, I mean… You’re right. It’s time you start properly training. And at least in the Eclipse commons, we can do so without getting caught.”
She blinked at him, still holding his hand between them, her fingers slick with his blood. The trust he was putting in her by agreeing to this… She knew how much that took from him.
She didn’t ask and he didn’t stop her as she reached for the Healing magic that had been hers all her life. It was still there, still familiar, and it answered her now despite the waxing moon in the sky. The puncture wounds on his palm closed over, and Emory gently squeezed his hand.
“Thank you,” she whispered, hoping the words conveyed everything she felt.
The moonlight danced in the reflection of his glasses. Emory made to pull away, but Baz’s hand suddenly wrapped around her elbow, fingers digging into her skin. For a wild, unfathomable second, she thought he might kiss her. Wondered what might happen if she let him, just to see what it was like. But he only stared at her wrist—at the spiral scar gleaming faint silver in the moonlight.
“That mark. Where did you get it?”
Emory pulled her arm out of his grip, hugging it to her chest. She willed her pulse to slow, tried to give him a bashful smile. “It’s just a silly tattoo.”
The suspicion in his eyes told her she wasn’t very convincing.
“I saw it on Travers’s hand,” Baz said. He swore. “Did Romie have one too?”
“I…” Her mouth opened and closed, stuck on that one word as she scrambled for what to say. She swallowed, looked away, knowing full well her silence spoke volumes.
“Are you in that cult?”
Emory went very still. “What cult?”
“The Veiled Atlas. Clover’s Inner Circle?”
A knot of tension uncoiled in her stomach. He didn’t mean the Selenic Order. “I have no idea what that is.”
“The Song of the Drowned Gods fanatics.”
She stared at him blankly, wondering if he’d lost so much blood from the glass that he’d gone delusional. “What does that book have to do with anything?”
“The Tides-damned song in the story!” he said impatiently. “The reason—you know what, here.” Baz rifled through his pocket and shoved a piece of paper at her. “See for yourself.”
Emory unfolded the note.
The call heard between the stars = DOVERMERE?
FIND EPILOGUE
“This is why Romie went to Dovermere, isn’t it?”
The words barely registered over the loud beating of her heart; the only thing she saw was that handwriting she knew so well. Maybe this did have something to do with the Selenic Order, if Romie wrote it. She couldn’t imagine Romie would have risked her life going to Dovermere for some Tides-damned children’s book unless there was more to it than that.
“You were her best friend,” Baz pressed. “You went with her. Clearly you know something about all this.”
“I don’t.” Emory handed him the note back, adding, “Romie and I weren’t exactly the closest last term. You know how secretive she’d become. I don’t know why any of them went to Dovermere. I only followed her there because I found out she was going, and—”
She realized her mistake a beat too late as a shadow fell on Baz’s face.
“You told me you all went to Dovermere together on some drunken dare.”
Fuck. “That’s what I meant,” she tried smoothly. Anger swelled in her at her own blunder. It was clear he didn’t believe a word. “They were drunk, and I didn’t want to leave her alone, so I followed them in. Then the tide came and none of it matters in the end because they’re all dead and there’s nothing we can do about it. Just let it go, Baz.”
“Let it go? Do you hear yourself? My sister—your best friend—is dead. Her dreams, her aspirations, all of it is gone. That’s not something I can just let go of. All that’s left of her is what little she left behind, and none of it makes sense, and you’re not exactly helping matters. So don’t tell me to let it go.”
Emory couldn’t do this right now. She drew herself up, smoothing her dress. “If we’re done here, I have a party to get to.”
There was a sudden weariness to him that made him look older, breaking the illusion that they’d been the same kids they were at Threnody, before everything went to shit. Emory didn’t give him the chance to say anything before she made her way out.
She looked over at the other greenhouse. From this angle, she recognized the students inside immediately: Lizaveta with her perfect hair and sardonic smile, Virgil with his dark, mischievous eyes, Nisha with her head bent low over Lizaveta’s outstretched arm, holding something Emory couldn’t see… and Keiran, leaning casually against a windowpane. He looked dapper in a dark gray suit and tie, his chestnut hair effortlessly styled back. She could have sworn she saw rosebuds blooming around him—around all of them, pulsing open and closed, the rhythm like that of a heartbeat.
A cult. Was this truly what this was, then? It had all the makings of one. Rituals in a cave. Dead students. Impossible magics—all of them remade into Tidecallers.
She stomped her way toward them, Baz’s words ringing in her ears like a battle cry.
The larger greenhouse was nothing like Romie’s. Moisture and warmth and green earthy smells embraced her. Virgil was the first to spot her, amusement sparking in his eyes. The smooth dark panes of his chest peeked out of the shimmering white satin shirt he’d only buttoned halfway, a bright indigo tie draped lazily across his shoulders.