LETTER FROM VIOLA CORVI TO OLIVIA CORVI, JULY 11, 1927
seven | viola
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1939
The door creaks open, and a woman stands a few inches from me. Her straight brown hair is neatly tucked behind her ears, and her hands mindlessly adjust her long black coat as if she’s waiting for me to invite her in. I notice a muted navy crest embroidered on its left pocket, the profile of a raven with a golden eye: the symbol of the House of Death.
Her expectant gaze lands on me, and I take a few steps back, putting enough distance between us. In all the years Olivia has attended Gorhail, no one from that forsaken place has ever set foot in our house.
“Madame Corvi,” she greets, shifting her look behind me. Mother must have heard the door and come downstairs. “May I come in?”
I’m surprised she’s asking, given she had no trouble turning the door-knob earlier.
Mother takes measured steps until she’s standing next to me. Her face is blank, and her lips are drawn in a thin line. “I would prefer we speak on the front porch,” she says, and the woman immediately turns on her heels.
I frown, following Mother out. Nightfall is nearly upon us; a flock of birds flies to the north toward Gorhail Woods, and if I listen closer, I hear the clatter of shoes on the pavement—people rushing home in timefor dinner. A slight breeze carries the sweet scent of purple roses to where Mother and I hug the door, facing the woman’s back. Mother flips the switch, and the single lightbulb hanging off the wooden beam lights up.
“I am Overseer Delaney, the head of the House of Death at Gorhail Institute. Olivia—” she begins, but Mother interrupts her.
“You killed Olivia.”
The woman’s lip twitches at the accusation. She clasps her hands as if, were she to unclasp them, she would do terrible things to my mother. Her lips stretch into a forced smile. “Olivia left school grounds after curfew. She was well aware of the dangers.”
Olivia would never break that rule. Just two days ago, she was joking about that very scenario. Sheknewnot to leave that wretched place after curfew. My heart races, rage flowing into my veins. Did this woman come here to tell us that Olivia died because she broke the rules? Died. Again, the word leaves a sour taste on my tongue. Olivia didn’t die, I remind myself. She was killed.
“It is under investigation both by the Bureau of Magus Nonmagi Alliance and DOTS.” She relaxes her smile. “Early reports say that it was an accident. Little Lake Albion’s boardwalk is slippery from all the rain and melted snow this time of year.”
An accident? Olivia’s arm was butchered with claw marks, and they stole her relic. I move, but Mother’s bony fingers clasp my arm, holding me in place. “My daughter was terrified of water,” she says calmly.
“I’m sorry.” The woman lowers her head. “Olivia excelled at school,” she offers, as if this would erase her blasphemous statement. When she lifts her eyes at us again, the slight annoyance is gone, replaced by regret. “She was brilliant. In fact, I personally recommended her for a junior magister position at the academy.”
Thisis why Olivia wanted to stay at Gorhail. They sold her dreams of a future that was never written for her.
“Oh.” Mother lets out a small gasp. Don’t fall into her trap, I want to tell her. Olivia was killed and they are trying to blind you with posthumous accolades while dismissing her death as an accident. They don’t care.
“I’m here to let you know that Gorhail will be taking care of all funeral expenses,” she says matter-of-factly. I hate how she speaks of Olivia’s murder as an afterthought, as a formality to file away. I hate how my sister died thinking they wanted her among them.
“We appreciate it,” Mother replies.
I step away from her. The ease with which she accepts Delaney’s offer repulses me. Only moments ago, she was holding me responsible for my sister’s death, and now that we have someone concrete to blame, she folds.
“Very well.” The woman gives her a curt smile, as if Mother’s answer has checked another box on her list. See Olivia’s mother. Check. Offer to pay for funeral expenses. Check.
Then she turns her gaze to me, studying me like I’m an exhibit at the museum, as if she can’t decide what to make of me yet.
“What is your name?” she asks, moving into the light. Her face is worn, threads of a sad life woven in every crease around her eyes and mouth. Her thin rose lips twitch with impatience the longer I look at her.
“I don’t owe you a name,” I finally reply.
She laughs. “Rhea taught you well.”
“You knew Nan?” My curiosity gets the best of me. This woman is baiting me, and I am taking it like a starved fish.
“Rhea was my dearest friend.” Her gaze is distant at first, then it locks on me. “DOTS has informed me that Olivia was a nonmagi.”
Next to me, a strangled sound escapes Mother’s throat. Did she think the three of us would carry the secret to the grave? That DOTS, the governing department of magic in Draterra, wouldn’t realize Olivia didn’t have magic when they examined her body?
“How couldyounot know?” Mother asks instead, to my surprise.