29
When I returned to my dormitory in the early hours of the morning, my face still flushed from kissing Casimir between the stacks, I found a note waiting for me.
If you value your life, don’t go to the Jewel Ball on Sunday. For once, please just listen to me.
The message wasn’t signed, but it didn’t matter. I’d recognized August’s looping hand at once. I crushed the note between my fingers as wave after wave of anger and frustration crashed over me. Once again, August was trying to control me, using veiled threats to deter me from stopping the ritual. Treating me like a child, as if I couldn’t handle myself. How dare he order me around! He held no claim on me anymore, and he’d learn that soon enough.
As I crawled into bed and closed my eyes, I tried to prevent my thoughts from trespassing into dangerous territory, but the feeling of Casimir’s lips on mine in the dark corridor of the Labyrinth was seared into my flesh like a brand. We had kissed not once, but twice in the course of the past two days. Unfortunately, as one of those incidents had occurred hours prior to my concussion, I couldn’t blame my lapse in judgment on a head injury. But then Casimir had agreed to attend the Jewel Ball with me. Even if we were only attending as friends—asallies—the thought had my stomach swooping with nerves. The idea of walking into a ballroom on the Darkseer’s arm was at once exhilarating and terrifying—especially considering that, as of tonight, things between him and me were no longer strictly professional.
I showed Casimir the note from August the next morning in the courtyard outside of Ash Hall. He was waiting on one of the wooden benches with two cups of coffee in hand.
I’d given up on concealing the dark circles beneath my eyes; in contrast, Casimir looked sharper than ever, despite the early hour.
He frowned as he read the note. “Is this all?”
“You mean, did I forget to disclose an additional explanatory letter that would actually be helpful? No,” I retorted with a roll of my eyes.
Casimir ignored the sarcastic remark and drained the last of his coffee. “Did you write back?” he inquired.
“Seeing as it’s seven in the morning, I don’t see when I’d have had the time.”
Casimir offered me a surreptitious smile. “I’ve been up for hours. Couldn’t sleep.”
My cheeks heated at the implication, but I evaded further comment.
Casimir continued, “In any case, I have a hunch that the Heir may be in attendance at the ball Sunday night. It might be wise for us to heed Sinclair’s warning, considering your current… vulnerabilities.”
My head snapped around to glare at him. “No way,” I seethed. “We already agreed! We’re going to the ball to find the Heir and do whatever it takes to stop the ritual. You’re not doing this without me.”
I was determined to see this through, no matter what.
Casimir gave an exasperated sigh and met my gaze with equal ferocity. “Do you need me to remind you what recent event makes your attendance that much more dangerous?” he asked. “The second Evren discovers you’ve tricked him in this bargain, he’ll be out for blood. He might even fancy the idea of torturing you into making a new bargain, only next time, he’ll be sure to see to it that the terms are completely binding.” His eyes were devoured by darkness as he leaned in toward me. “You would be his slave, Farrow, and there would be little I could do to stop it.”
I couldn’t help the shiver that skittered along my spine. The idea of becoming Evren’s slave was simply unthinkable. I closed my mind to the thought, refusing to let fear cloud my judgment. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for an argument.
“He won’t find out,” I insisted. “No one apart from you and I have any idea?—”
“There are multiple ways he might discover it,” Casimir interrupted, his tone scathing. “I’ve already told you that because you spilled your blood to seal the bargain, you may be bound by magic to uphold your end of it, at least in part.”
“Wait a moment. How do you know that the Heir will be in attendance?” I asked.
His eyes were fixed on the ground as he replied, “I have my ways.”
“What does that mean?”
“I have a friend who dabbles in catopromancy.”
I gaped at him. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”
“Catopromancy, also sometimes called scrying, is the practice of divining the future by gazing into a mirror. Ancient Roman priests known asspeculariioften practiced it, as did the Ancient Egyptians,” he explained. “Strictly speaking, scrying of any sort is forbidden in Ethervale.”
“Who is this friend, exactly, and why haven’t you mentioned them before?”
“I’m not at liberty to disclose that.”
“How could you not tell me you have a-a spy?” I said indignantly. “What happened to ‘no more secrets’?”
His answering shrug was full of more nonchalance than my temper could abide, but he replied sternly, “I can’t reveal my source. It would compromise their cover.”