A million questions dance on the tip of my tongue, but I go with the most selfish one. “Why did you save me?”
Priya stops walking and stares at me for a beat. She takes a deep breath before answering. “The Corvi relic is centuries old, and your affinity will be an asset once trained.” She gestures at my cuff.
Of course, it’s because of the relic. I curse the brief moment I thought she valued my life. But I’m not at Gorhail to find love or acceptance, I am here to find my sister’s killer.
Olivia’s room is dark, barren, and void of any personality. Nothing she would pick. No, she loved colors; she was vibrant; she was life itself. What did this place do to her?
Black jackets and wool sweaters pack the small oak wardrobe tucked in a corner of the room. No intricate designs, no beautiful patterns, only flat cuts of dark stained wood—it feels more like a ward than a dormitory. At the bottom of the wardrobe, four pairs of black boots neatly sit in a row. To my side, a chest of four drawers, an equally plain affair, is stacked with black and navy shirts with the embroidered royal-blue crest of the House of Death, along with skirts, pants, and leggings. If not for the distinct smell of new clothes, I would’ve thought they left all of Olivia’s uniforms intact. They’ve already cleared the room, and Olivia hasn’t even been dead two days—or is it three? Time no longer makes sense; I feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare and I’m constantly trying to wake up.
Next to the chest of drawers is a lightly stained double pedestal study desk that doesn’t match the rest of the room; it’s the only piece of furniture with a personality. Three drawers frame the desk on each side, and I mechanically open all of them. All empty.
Someone knocks on the door, and I seize. I have yet to change out of this filthy linen robe, and I don’t wish to speak to anyone from this murderous place. There’s a brief pause, and I hold my breath, hoping the person will leave, but then the knocks are back, this time more persistent.
“Miss Corvi.” A silvery voice comes through. “I won’t take much of your time.”
Whoever is on the other side knows I’m in here. It’s useless to pretend otherwise. I fling the door open, and it slams into the wall.
A young man in his midtwenties stops his fist halfway through another knock. He has soft blond hair and moss-green eyes, and he wears a blue shirt and yellow pants. He’s about the most colourful person I’ve seen since I set foot at Gorhail. He reminds me of what my sister used to be.
The man looks at me like he’s seen a ghost. His eyes flare, his breathing shallows, his mouth slightly opens. I clear my throat.
“Sorry.” He blinks a few times. “Lorne Lawton. Magister. I’ve been assigned to y— I mean, you’ve been assigned to me.”
“Magister?” I ask. He looks too young to be a Magister.
“I am here on behalf of Overseer Delaney to give you a brief tour of Gorhail.”
“At this hour?” It’s pitch-black outside. I still have days-old blood glued to my skin, and I am too exhausted to go traipsing around Gorhail with a stranger. Clearly, Delaney has no regard for my recovery.
“I-I,” he stammers, taking in my bloodied robe, then sighs. “I can wait for you to change.”
I return a blank stare, my hand on the door. I hope he takes the hint and leaves.
“Tomorrow then.” He steps backward, considering me a second too long.
Right when I think I’m rid of him, his hand stops the door from closing. “Overseer Delaney said you need food,” he says in one breath.
Food is the last thing on my mind right now. I need to scrub the filth of death from my skin. I need to peruse the room for anything that will clue me in on Olivia’s secrets. And I need to sleep.
“Look.” I tip my head backward to meet his eyes. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m exhausted from almost dying. I’ll be ready at eight tomorrow.”
“Oli—” He stops himself immediately. His cheeks flush, and he backs away. He reminds me of the townspeople in Albion, always saying we looked alike when the only thing we had in common was our height.
“You knew my sister?” I walk out after him, barefoot and bloodied, but he’s already hurrying away down the hall.
“Eight sharp,” I call out. “I’ll wait here.”
If Olivia is a puzzle, then Lorne is the first piece.
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1939
My nightmares are a tapestry of Olivia’s last moments. In every single one of them, I am the one pushing her off the boardwalk.
I wake up before the sun rises, sit with my thoughts, decide they are too much, and go back to sleep. When I wake up again, the clock reads half-past seven. I speed through the bathroom, grateful that I took an hour-long shower the night before. I refuse to be late. Today begins my foray into Olivia’s secret life at Gorhail.
At exactly eight o’clock, there is a knock at the door.
Lorne is wearing a black sweater that matches mine, a royal-blue raven embroidered on the left pocket, and straight black pants. He clutches a folded newspaper under one arm.The Daily Magesits at the top in bold letters. This newspaper has been around since the dawn of time. Nan had a collection of yellowing ones we had to throw out shortly after her death. Right below the title are three pictures: Olivia’s smiling face, and the two boys who were at Dearly Departed. Olivia did make the headlines, after all, even though it appears thatThe Daily Magereplaced her Magus title with nonmagi. Because in death, all the years she toiled earning her ranks don’t matter—they only care about her magical pedigree. At least, I hope the front page means they are taking her death seriously.