Emory looked at the woman with fresh awe. Magic like that was the kind she’d only ever dreamed to aspire to. It reminded her of Romie, who’d always been in a league of her own, even at Threnody Prep. The Dreamers there had a long-standing tradition of making a sport out of who could go furthest in the sleepscape—which, according to Romie, appeared endless and became harder to navigate the further that Dreamers traveled. Romie had made it further than Dreamers older and more experienced than her when she was only thirteen. By sixteen, she had found she could take things out of dreams—shimmering illusions that disintegrated to dust soon after she woke, but an achievement nonetheless, for few Dreamers could do such a thing.
Romie would have fit right in here, Emory thought. It was no wonder she’d been selected as an initiate. Her gaze traveled to where Virgil, Nisha, and Lizaveta stood at a table, joined by a girl wearing a Bruma mask who had to be Ife Nuru. She wore a long-sleeved dress of shimmering black material, her braids arranged in a crown atop her head.
“Are all of you legacies?” Emory asked.
Keiran followed her line of sight. “Lizaveta and Virgil are. Javier, too—you haven’t met him yet, he’s probably hiding here somewhere with Louis. They can’t seem to get their hands off each other.”
She didn’t miss the way his own hand brushed hers as he lifted his glass to his lips, his eyes intent on her as he drank. She fought her blush and asked, “Louis—Clairmont?”
Keiran nodded. “He, Ife, and Nisha were selected based off merit alone. Ife’s a brilliant Seer, Nisha is more skilled than any Sower I’ve ever met, and Louis is a much better Healer than what his drunken skills at the bonfires might suggest, I assure you.”
Emory threw him a sidelong glance. “And Farran? What was he?”
“Farran was everything,” he said quietly. “Both a legacy and a total force to be reckoned with. His Reaper skills were unrivaled. Much like Romie with her Dreaming.”
“Was she a legacy too?”
“No. I don’t know how she found out about the Order in the first place.” A private smile touched his lips. “She wasn’t even on my radar until she barged into my dreams one night and practically held me hostage there until I agreed to give her a shot at initiation.”
Emory laughed. It sounded so very much like Romie—when she wanted something, she went after it, even if it meant harassing people in their dreams to get it.
Keiran’s hazel eyes fell on her laughing mouth, looking for all the world like he might want to bottle the sound. She didn’t miss the way he tracked a shaft of her unbound hair as it fell forward on her bare shoulder, shimmering golden in the candlelight. His hand twitched as if he yearned to run his fingers through it.
She swallowed. Hard.
“I’m glad you decided to come, Ains,” Keiran said.
Emory was grateful for the mask hiding her blush. She was here for a reason; she wouldn’t let herself be seduced by him and his charm and his silly nicknames.
“You didn’t seem so glad earlier.”
“You just caught me by surprise. I hadn’t told the others about you yet.”
“Clearly.”
She caught Lizaveta glaring at them from across the room. She quickly turned back to the group she was speaking with, red painted mouth widening into a sultry laugh at something one of them said. She looked like a queen holding court, like Anima herself with her ever-waxing magnetism and youth.
“Some of you aren’t too keen to have me here,” Emory said sullenly.
“Liza’s very particular about who she lets in.”
“Cult members only, huh?” Around them, the music swelled in a familiar melody, something Romie used to hum constantly in their dorm. She frowned, thinking of Baz. “Does the Selenic Order have anything to do with Song of the Drowned Gods, by any chance?”
“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.