Keiran gave her a sidelong glance, as if seeing right through her lie.
“Well, I mean, we used to be, back at prep school,” Emory amended. “But that was a long time ago. We hardly ever speak nowadays.”
“And tonight?”
Was that jealousy she heard in his voice, or just unease at the idea of her being close to his parents’ killer’s son? She studied his features in the dark. His expression was guarded, a mask like the porcelain faces of the Tides. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to constantly be reminded of his parents whenever he saw Baz. Whenever he’d seen Romie, too.
“He doesn’t know you’re a Tidecaller, does he?” Keiran asked at her silence.
“No. Of course not.”
The thought briefly crossed her mind to tell him what really happened on the beach the night Travers appeared, how Baz had saved her from her own power by reversing time. But just as quickly, she pushed the impulse away. Sharing that would be like betraying Baz. He’d made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her and her magic anymore; the least she could do was respect him enough not to drag him into this mess.
“Good. It’s best no one else knows what you are.” Keiran drew closer, brushing the curls at her temple. “Easier to protect your secret this way.”
Warmth flooded her. “I won’t tell a soul.”
She was all too aware of her own heartbeat, of her parting lips, as his eyes flickered to her mouth. Keiran leaned in—only to brush past her, saying, “We’re almost there.”
Tides damn her. She needed to get a grip on herself.
Emory caught up to him. Sure enough, the river appeared up ahead, gleaming silver under the gibbous moon. It was narrower here than it was downriver where the festival was, and calmer, too. Rustling willow trees brushed the water’s surface.
“Remind me again why we’re doing this along the river and not the Aldersea, or even Dovermere?”
“No one’s going back to Dovermere until we know for certain how to wake the Tides,” Keiran declared. “I’m not risking any more lives. Besides, the Tides rule over more than just the sea. The river might not hold the same power as the sea or as Dovermere itself, but it’s where the first Selenics held their fall equinox rituals. We’ve done it a few times before, but it always felt like there was something missing.” A glance at her. “Of course, we didn’t have a Tidecaller then.”
Emory looked away, cheeks burning.
“Even if tonight’s summons yields nothing,” Keiran said gently, “it’s the perfect way to test your power.”
She hoped she’d live up to it, this expectation he placed on her.
The rest of the Selenics were already gathered on the riverbank. Nisha gave Emory a bright smile to which she responded in kind, grateful that things between them had mended.
Somewhere behind them, a branch snapped loudly. Emory whipped around to see Lizaveta brandishing a metal case. “Got the synths,” she declared.
Lizaveta inked everyone’s Selenic Mark with the synthetic magic, which was imbued with a mixture of both Waxing and Full Moon magics. To honor Anima and Aestas, who used to rule over summer and autumn, Keiran explained.
In the oldest versions of the myth, the cycle of the Tides started in spring, with Bruma taking seed, followed by Anima tending those seeds in summer, Aestas shining over the plentiful harvest of autumn, and Quies quieting the world with the cold winds of winter, so that the cycle could start anew in spring. Nowadays, those associations had been skewed to fit a more modern perspective: Bruma was attributed to the dark barrenness of winter, Anima to the growth of spring, Aestas to the bright lushness of summer, and Quies to the dwindling of autumn.
Since tonight was the fall equinox, the transition from summer to autumn, they would honor the old ways and use magic belonging to both the waxing moon that shone upon them and the full moon it would very soon become. They were fitting magics for such a ritual: speaking their intentions to make them true like Wordsmiths; using Glamour compulsion to will the Tides to hear them; shining their light like a beacon, the way Lightkeepers guided ships to safe harbor.
Protection, purification, mindfulness, manifestation—it had all the makings of a powerful summons.
If waking the Tides was opening a door, as Keiran put it, this was them trying to first unlock it.
At Keiran’s insistence, Emory was inked too, on the basis that it might help open her senses, make it easier for her to access these other magics at her disposal.
As all eight of them formed a circle in the order of the moon’s phases—Ife and Louis of House New Moon, Lizaveta and Nisha of House Waxing Moon, Keiran and Javier of House Full Moon, Virgil of House Waning Moon, and Emory, standing between Virgil and Ife for House Eclipse, the link between the first and last phases of the moon—she thought she felt the synth working. A beat drummed in her ears, the melody of seven beating hearts synced to the rhythm of her own. Something tugged at the edge of her vision, smudges of color that clung to each Selenic, shifting and swirling in mysterious ways.
The air was cold, their breaths fogging around their mouths. She could feel the others’ breathing like whispers against her flushed cheeks, her exposed neck, making gooseflesh rise on the skin hidden away beneath the heavy folds of her coat. There was a sharpness to the air, an expectant sort of clearness, as if the night itself was eager for magic to fill it.
“The Tides watch over us this night.” Keiran’s voice commanded power as he looked at each of them in turn. “Much as summer spills into autumn, this river spills into the sea, carrying with it all its strength. The first Selenics would pour their magics into the River Helene so that she might carry them to the Aldersea, an offering to the Tides, a plea for them to hear their fervor. It was a way for them to say, We remain. We remember. Tonight, we send out this initial call to make our intention known. To show the Tides that we still remain, still remember the ways of old, and that we mean to bring them back.”
His gaze settled on Emory last. He looked at her in a way that sent her stomach into knots and her skin tingling with anticipation. “If nothing else, let this be our way of testing our Tidecaller’s magic.”
Keiran gave a nod to Ife and Louis, who intoned as one: “To Bruma, who sprang from the darkness.”
Then, Lizaveta and Nisha: “To Anima, whose voice breathed life into the world.”
Keiran and Javier: “To Aestas, whose bountiful warmth and light protect us all.”
And Virgil at last: “To Quies and the sleeping darkness she guides us through at the end of all things.”
“From the Deep we seek to raise thee,” Keiran continued. “With this ritual, our word becomes oath; let it bind us to thee. Let us pour our magics into the river and see them flow.”
His eyes found Emory’s again as he shucked off his coat, began unbuttoning his shirt. Emory glanced nervously at the others, all of them undressing quietly in the moonlight.
Virgil was the first to strip down to his briefs. He ran to the river, followed closely by a shrieking Nisha in dainty lace undergarments. When they hit the water, Emory gasped. Impossibly, she felt the shock of that cold water against her own skin. Virgil dragged Nisha beneath the surface, and Emory staggered back slightly at the feeling that settled over her: a sudden hush, pressure on her eardrums—the muffled weight of the river above and below and all around her, as if she’d been submerged herself.