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.”
Romie must have come to this same event last year. It didn’t come as a surprise that she’d been noticed by the Order so soon after starting at Aldryn. Emory wondered how many parties like this Romie had gone to over that first term. All those nights she would sneak out of their room without a word. All those lies she’d tell whenever Emory asked where she’d been. It had all been for this.
She couldn’t help feeling envious. This was the kind of world she’d always dreamed of having access to, the kind Romie effortlessly fit into. Back at Threnody, Romie had always made sure Emory was included in everything she was. We’re a package deal, she would say. Where I go, she goes. No one ever denied her. And while Emory was glad to be included, she knew people only did so to please Romie. They made polite conversation with her out of respect or duty, but it was Romie they fawned over, Romie who dazzled them. Emory was an afterthought, a wallflower easily overlooked.
Now she was in the thick of it. Still not as a first choice, but here of her own choosing, at least.
“Are the new candidates here, then?” she asked, blood boiling at the thought of Dovermere’s next potential victims.
Virgil took a big gulp of his drink. With a trace of uncharacteristic melancholy, he said, “After the last fiasco at the caves, we decided to withhold initiations this year, lie low for a while.”
Thank the Tides. One less thing to worry about tonight. “So they decided to throw this soiree anyway because…？”
“The Tidal Council—they’re the heads of our order—were adamant we select new candidates regardless of what happened last year. Tradition and all. But Keiran managed to convince them otherwise. This was their way of compromising. And to honor those who’ve passed.”
The Tidal Council was likely whose opinion she needed to sway tonight, she realized. As if reading her thoughts, Virgil winked at her and said, “They’ll go feral over you. Their unexpected newest addition.”
“Careful what you say, Virgil,” Lizaveta seethed, suddenly at their side along with Keiran and Nisha. “She might bear our mark, but she’s not one of us yet.”
“You’re certainly in a mood tonight, Liza,” Virgil quipped. He knocked back his drink. “I think more of these are in order, yes?”
He winked at Emory again before looping his arms through both Lizaveta’s and Nisha’s, whisking them away to one of the tables laden with food and drinks.
Left alone with Keiran, she felt her nerves come back. She was acutely aware of his eyes on her but couldn’t make herself meet them, taking a closer look at the people around her instead. They seemed to range widely in age, older than the average student, though it was hard to tell with all of them donning masks. Alumni, no doubt; members of the Selenic Order from years and decades past. There was an air of importance to them, a thrum of power; they looked for all the world like they were the Tides themselves.
Keiran moved closer to her—much too close. With a glass of amber liquor in his hand, he pointed subtly to a stout man wearing Bruma’s face, whispering in her ear, “That there is Raine Avis, the most sought-after Seer among politicians from all over the world.”
The man laughed loudly with a statuesque woman who wore a Quies mask. “And that’s Vivianne Delaune,” Keiran said, his breath making the fine hairs on her neck lift, “a prolific Memorist who’s developed ways to sense memories in objects. She works with the highest-ranking Regulators and crime units in Trevel.”
With a hand on her elbow, he turned her gently to the other side of the room, where an older woman sat on a divan, her cloud of silver hair perfectly framing her Anima mask.
“Leonie Thornby,” Keiran murmured. “A Wordsmith artist of the highest caliber.”
“Thornby?”
Emory twisted to look at him, all too aware of how close they stood.
A corner of his mouth lifted. “A great-aunt of mine. I’m afraid I’m what you might call a legacy within the Order.” He directed her attention back to Leonie. “I’ve always been in awe of her. Her work is divine; she’s composed songs that have brought upon storms and made rivers run to her rhythms like the universe is her own orchestra. In fact, the instruments you hear playing tonight are her doing. She’s the one who came up with the idea to have these play in Crescens library.”