Virgil seemed to catch himself, and that sardonic smile of his came back. He nudged Emory with a shoulder. “We’re a real catch with Sowers, I can tell you that.”
“I didn’t know that room existed,” Emory said, mesmerized.
“Ah yes, well. We’re a secretive bunch over at Decrescens Hall. But I’m sure I could sneak you in one day, teach you how to use Reaper magic the way it was meant to be used.”
“I’d like that.” She realized she meant it wholeheartedly, now oddly at peace with her Tidecaller magic and all the possibilities she might unlock with it.
A sudden commotion drew their attention. Lizaveta was storming out of the Treasury, leaving a tired-looking Keiran behind.
Unease was swift to swallow Emory up again. Virgil tracked her line of sight and said, “Don’t worry about Lizaveta. There’s history there, and, well… Let’s just say she’s not so trusting of Eclipse-born.”
I don’t blame her, Emory wanted to say. She peered at Virgil. “And the rest of you? How do you feel about having an untrained Eclipse-born in your midst?”
“I can’t speak for the others, but us Reapers? We understand more than most, I think, the kind of challenges the Eclipse-born face. The distrust that follows both our alignments.” He looked to where Lizaveta had disappeared. “I’m sure she’ll come around eventually. But in the meantime, just know you’ve got at least one person in your corner.” A wink. “I’m rooting for you, Tidecaller.”
Emory hid a smile. She caught Keiran’s eye from across the room, and nothing else mattered as he made his way toward them. Virgil excused himself, saying he’d better go check on Lizaveta—I’ll put in a good word for you—making Emory wonder if there might be something between the two of them.
She hoped he was right, and that this animosity Lizaveta had for her would dissipate.
“I hope we didn’t overwhelm you,” Keiran said as he sidled up to her.
She laughed, the wine and tension of the evening going to her head. “Oh, not at all. This is just a regular weekday night for me.”
He smiled that dimpled smile at her, full of genuine mirth. It was disarming.
“Ask me again tomorrow,” she amended, “when all this doesn’t feel so much like a fever dream.”
“Fair enough. Shall I walk you back to your dorm, then?”
There was so much she wanted to ask him still, but her mind went blank under his stare, and all she could do was duck her head to hide her blush. “Sure.”
As they reached her room, it felt to Emory like she was dancing upon a precipice, heart racing to a wild tune in anticipation of the drop. They lingered in front of her door. In the quiet corridor, Keiran’s features were shadowed, edges limned in faint light. His eyes slowly traveled down to her lips, making her stomach go taut at the intensity in them.
“Now that you’ve sworn your oath,” he said, voice lowered to a husky tone, “I can show you what the Selenic Mark actually does, if you want.” A nod at her door. “Can we…？”
Emory opened the door, heart beating so fast she thought it might burst. Keiran brushed past her into the room, and she leaned back against the door, unsure of what to say or how to act now that they were here. Her room felt too small; she couldn’t quite make sense of his presence in it as he strode over to her desk, his hands reaching for the bloodletting instruments she kept there: a shallow bowl, a vial of salt water, a knife. Things every magical adept kept close, but that she didn’t need anymore, she supposed, now that she was Eclipse-born.
Emory watched with growing anticipation as Keiran poured a bit of salt water into the bowl, every movement precise, loaded. His tattooed hand hovered over the bowl. His eyes didn’t leave hers as he slowly dipped his hand in the water, all the way past his wrist. Something changed in the air between them, and when he lifted his dripping hand, Emory could plainly see the symbol on his wrist, glowing faintly silver. A prickling sensation drew her attention to her own wrist, an echo of the burning that had birthed the mark on her skin—which was now glowing just like Keiran’s.
“This is what the mark does,” he said in her ear, making the fine hairs on her neck stand to attention.
Emory drew a sharp inhale, expecting to see him beside her, so clear had been his voice, the murmur of breath against her skin. But he still stood across the room from her, casually leaning against her desk.
“How…”
“It’s a calling card of sorts. With it, you can call on anyone else who bears the mark, no matter how far away you are.”
She saw his lips move, but again his voice sounded right beside her, as if he stood there whispering in her ear. There was something oddly intimate to it, with his gaze so intent on her; it made her glad to be standing so far away, while at the same time yearning to be closer.
She glanced at her own marked wrist. “Show me how to do it.”
Keiran motioned to the bowl. “Salt water activates it.”
Emory pushed off the door and came to stand beside him. He looked at her in a way that made her pulse quicken as her hand tentatively grazed the surface of the water.
“It’s all about intention,” he said over her shoulder, both through the mark and not. She shivered at his nearness. “You have to really think about who you wish to call on, let their essence wash over you. Focus on the act of calling out to them itself.”
Emory conjured his face in her mind. It wasn’t hard to do, with his breath on her neck and his faint aftershave in her nose. I want to speak to Keiran Dunhall Thornby, she thought. She sensed something at the edge of her vision, felt a prickle on her wrist. When she lifted her hand from the water, the symbol was bright silver.
“Like this?” Her voice sounded normal to her ears, but she felt it, somehow—the way it traveled to him through whatever magic, sending a jolt through her spine.
His voice caressed the back of her neck. “Exactly like that.”
Emory turned to find him standing inches from her, his face so beautiful it hurt to look at.
“You truly believe it, don’t you?” she asked, marveling at the way his throat undulated as he stared at her lips. “That we can bring the Tides back.”
His hand brushed hers, twin spirals glowing in question and answer to each other. “I believe there’s power in intention. It’s what makes the magic in our Selenic Mark come alive, what lets us call on each other, a gift we have no explanation for because whatever its original purpose might have been is lost to us now. Intention is how people of old were able to touch all magics, because so long as they honored the Tides, power flowed freely through their veins. Magic from all moons and all tides. Like yours.”
He looked at her from beneath thick lashes. “I think if we truly set our minds to it, if we set out with intention and use your magic for this one great purpose… why shouldn’t we be able to call upon such a force as the Tides themselves?”
Emory supposed it was possible. Up until tonight, she didn’t know such a thing as synthetic magic existed. Before that, she didn’t think her own magic was possible, still couldn’t believe how she could go her entire life thinking she was a Healer and suddenly be something as fabled as a Tidecaller, her blood running with the dark power of the Eclipse. And until moments ago, she never let herself hope—dream—that she might see Romie again.