“Does the archer’s intent forge the arrow in addition to aiming the bow?” asked Nico, frowning.
“Sometimes,” said Dalton. “Other times, the arrow is forged by something else.”
“Does the arrow forge itself?”
Libby again. Dalton turned to her slowly, regarding her for a moment in silence. She seemed to mean one thing—If magic is the arrow and we are the archers, how much control do we have over its flight?—but appeared to have ultimately asked quite another.
Is magic the tool, or are we?
“That,” Dalton said eventually, “is the purpose of this study.”
Callum and Tristan had not spoken yet, which wasn’t entirely unusual, nor was it unusual that they paused to exchange a glance. At one point it had been Tristan initiating the glances, almost as a measure of security; checking to see if his left leg still existed, or if he were still wearing the shirt he’d put on before breakfast. Now it was Callum who was doing routine maintenance. Observing the functions on a passenger train; protecting his assets.
Reina turned to look at Nico, who had lost interest in the philosophical underpinnings of the conversation. She wondered if he were still thinking about what Parisa had told him, and then proceeded to wonder what his intentions were.
She was fairly confident Nico wouldn’t kill her. （Her plants slithered back, hissing in distaste at the prospect of anyone doing otherwise.） Of course, practically speaking, Reina was fairly certain no one would; she was neither at the top nor the bottom of anyone’s list, which made her neither potential target nor potential victim. Beneath it all, they were equally ambitious—individually, they were all starved for something—but the polarities of the group were the ones whose incongruity couldn’t be rectified. The presence of Parisa implied the existence of Callum, and that was the tension the others were unable to stand. Unused to the necessity of opposition, they would find it necessary to choose.
Reina turned to look at Parisa, considering her own choices. On the one hand, she would happily be rid of Parisa. On the other, Parisa had played her game well; Reina doubted anyone could convince Tristan or Libby to kill her. No, scratch Libby from consideration altogether. She wouldn’t actively choose anyone—too skittish. Unless Libby would kill Callum? A possibility. After all, Libby had been the most bothered by Parisa’s astral death.
At the reminder of the incident in question, Reina turned to observe Callum again, more closely this time. The plant behind him shivered, and Reina frowned in agreement; it was Callum who had unsettled them all, and even the simplest forms of life could feel it. Callum was the obvious choice, only there was one major obstacle to unanimity: Tristan. Would Tristan agree to kill Callum? No, most likely not, and that explained Callum’s need to check on him regularly.
It seemed the incident between Callum and Parisa had split the remainder of them into factions—people who were bothered by death and people who weren’t—and Tristan was the meridian.
Maybe they should just be rid of Tristan.
Parisa turned to her with one brow arched. （Reina had been careless; settling perhaps a bit too clumsily on the idea.）
Don’t pretend you’ve ever really had a friend, thought Reina in silent reply. You’d turn on him in a moment if it suited you.
Parisa’s lips twitched up, half-smiling. She gave a small shrug, neither confirmation nor denial, then returned her attention to Dalton, who was just beginning to discuss curses on forms of consciousness when the door opened behind him, revealing the rare appearance of Atlas in the frame.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” said Atlas, though of course he had interrupted, unquestionably. He was dressed in a full suit as always, though he appeared to have come from somewhere; perhaps a meeting. Having never held the position of Caretaker in an elite secret society, Reina was unsure of his daily activities. She watched him remove the hook of his umbrella from his arm and set it beside the door, leaning it on the frame.
At one point, this had been normal. When they first began their work, Atlas had been present nearly every morning, but, like Dalton, he had taken several steps back once they’d grown comfortable with the Society’s work. His appearance now shifted the chemistry in the room, noticeably altering its atmosphere.
Dalton nodded in acknowledgement, opening his mouth to continue his list of suggested reading, but before he could, Libby had tentatively raised a hand in the air.
“Sorry, sir,” she said, turning to Atlas, “but since you’re here, I wondered if we were going to discuss the details of initiation at any point.”