by Monica Sanz
Anger waved upward till redness shaded the fringes of her sight. Focused on the thrash of her heartbeat and on the vile boy, she envisioned plumes of fire, and her hands grew hot.
Preoccupied with celebrations, the stout, freckle-faced boy failed to notice the curls of smoke that whirled from the tail of his cloak.
Timothy gasped. “Whittaker, your cloak!”
When the burn in her hand grew to a scalding ache, Sera clenched her fingers shut.
A fire snapped onto the tail of Whittaker’s cloak first, then upward along the black fabric. A collective gasp resounded, cut only by Whittaker’s screams. A soothing warmth rolled through Sera, the release of magic intoxicating and comforting.
Thrusting off his cloak, he threw it to the ground, and with a flick of his wand, extinguished it. He spun to Sera and advanced, his wand aimed at her. “You little—”
His eyes widened. He stopped and lowered his wand slowly, paling in equal measure. The room grew still; so did Sera’s heart as Professor Barrington appeared from behind a bookshelf and moved in between them. Tall and lean, he took up little space in the vast room. His dark humor, however, seemed to obscure all light and air. At no older than five and twenty, he was younger than all the other professors, but this made him no less severe. He had a handsome, angular face, a strong jaw, narrow nose, and thin lips. Full black lashes made his gray eyes seem lighter, more intense. Uncomfortably so as he slid them back and forth between the two students, then lowered them to the smoking cloak.
Still, Sera held her head high as Professor Barrington scrutinized the scene.
“Mr. Whittaker, is there a reason your cloak is on the ground, half burned?” he asked, his voice a deep baritone. But while each word was smooth, cultured, and refined, Sera felt the tension in the room swell. Though Barrington exuded sophistication, there was something ominous and dormant beneath his surface. She shivered, having no desire to know what.
Whittaker speared a pudgy finger at Sera. “Sh-she tried to set me on fire!”
Barrington raised a hand and silenced the boy. “Do not bark at me, Mr. Whittaker.” He lowered his hand. “Miss Dovetail?”
Sera glared at him and said nothing. What would be the point? The fire in his eyes told her he’d already gathered his answer.
Barrington’s jaw clenched. “Well, Miss Dovetail?”
“That’s not true, Professor.” Timothy swept up beside her, his chin a touch higher, as though to reach Barrington in stature and intensity. “I was next to her the entire time, and she never drew her wand.”
A strange look overcame Barrington’s eyes, offense that Timothy would dare speak to him mixed with something else Sera couldn’t quite place or care about at the moment. She could only gape at Timothy Delacort defending her. No one ever defended seventhborns, especially someone of his standing, and against his best friend no less.
“I know she did it,” Whittaker hissed, nostrils flared. “If she didn’t use her wand, then…then…she did it wandless.”
The crowd gasped, and murmurs erupted once more.
Barrington’s icy scrutiny slid from Timothy to Whittaker. “That’s a serious accusation. Use of magic without a wand is grounds for severe repercussion for a student…as is blaming an innocent witch.” He held out a hand. “Your wand, please?”
Whittaker’s eyes widened, but under Barrington’s steely gaze, he relinquished it. His wand was fashioned out of ash wood, the same school-issued wand as Sera’s, but it was splintered and its casing tarnished. Sera pursed her lips. Just as ugly as its owner.
Barrington twirled the worn rod between long fingers. Sera’s gaze fixed on his Invocation ring, an honor bestowed on graduates of the Aetherium School of Continuing Magic and a sign that he was highly trained and able to manipulate magic without a wand. The mark of a true magician. More, a requirement to becoming an inspector.
“You understand that performing a wandless spell requires expert focus and control, Mr. Whittaker?” Barrington asked.
“Yes, Professor, but how else—”
“And you also realize that Miss Dovetail has limited training, nowhere near the likes of that needed to perform wandless magic…were she foolish enough to try.”
Though he was focused on Whittaker, Sera stiffened under Barrington’s peripheral glare. Surely he hadn’t seen her illicit use of wandless magic. She turned her eyes down, hoping this was the case.
Whittaker nodded. “I understand, sir—”
“And you would still risk your wand over this accusation?” Barrington asked above him.
Whittaker gulped, a thin sheet of sweat glistening at his wide forehead. He looked to his wand in Barrington’s hand, and then to Sera, and swallowed again. “I…I…”
“Don’t be stupid,” Timothy whispered. “Maybe you mistakenly brushed your wand against your cloak.”
“I would never make a mistake with my wand,” Whittaker barked.
Barrington hummed, one black brow arched. “Then what should we call this?” He motioned coolly to the mess of books scattered just behind them. “Intentional? Did you go against the oath you spoke over your wand to never use it for ill? Tell me it is so, Mr. Whittaker.” He lifted the wand, long fingers gripping the ends tightly. The wand slowly illuminated blue, and Whittaker’s eyes widened the brighter it grew. School-issued wands were designed for the power levels of a student. If Barrington flooded the rod with his more mature, stronger magic, the wand would burn and wither to ash.
“No!” The round-faced boy pressed his lips into a tight line, his hands fisted. “It was…a mistake.”
“As was the matter with your cloak.” The wand’s glow dimmed, and with the whirl of a wrist, Barrington presented it to Whittaker, metal handle first. “Do be sure to sheathe your wand when not in use. You wouldn’t want to fail assessments over something so simple.” He turned to the horde. “Back to your studies.”
Murmurs of protest resounded, but everyone obeyed and returned to their tables.
Sera did neither, focused on Whittaker walking away, Timothy beside him.
“Is there a problem, Miss Dovetail?” Barrington stepped into her line of sight like a black brushstroke, his shadow swathing her.
She clenched her hands, the need for revenge hot in her fingertips. “He did it on purpose. He could’ve killed me.”
“Yes, well, strike him and you’ll lose everything. Is that what you want?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
Her jaw tightened. “No, it’s not what I want.”
He arched a brow.
“Professor.”
“Then off with you.” He spun, his black robes billowing behind him. “And Miss Dovetail,” he said over his shoulder, “I will not save you again.”
Her face grew hotter with each of his retreating steps. Save her again? Her pulse quickened, panic replacing her anger. Did he mean save her from Whittaker, or had he seen her use wandless magic? No, it couldn’t have been possible. She would not be standing there if so; he could have burned her wand and expelled her, but he hadn’t. He must have meant save her from Whittaker, but as she watched him vanish out of the library, all she could wonder was why bother saving her at all?
2
strange evening call
“No one’s persecuting seventhborns anymore,” Sera mumbled bitterly as she strode down the wide, arched corridor of the female dormitory where throngs of girls snickered, pointed, and whispered. Portraits of previous pupils lined the walls in gilt frames, and even they seemed to stare down at her with bright, jovial eyes and small grins.
Her hands tightened, cramped. How did Mary expect her to walk down the hall with these pompous hogs and not lose her temper? Anger-laced magic pricked her insides, little nudges to bend and break. To burn and destroy. She clutched The Unmitigated Truths of Seventhborns to her chest and stifled the urge. She couldn’t. Professor Barrington was right; one more strike and she would lose everything. All that waited if she got expelled was work a
s an Aetherium official’s secretary—if she were lucky. Seventhborns were often not.
She could always go against Aetherium law and become a medium. It was no secret a seventhborn’s magic was inclined to clairvoyance, empathy, auras, and the other types of Aether magic. But singular to seventhborn girls was the darker aspect of Aether magic—death, including the ability to see the dead.
There were rumors of seventhborns who chose to use this magic for personal gain through mediumship. They hosted secret séances, used their magic to evoke the dead through spirit boards, and told fortunes through crystal balls. Unfortunately, Sera’s connection to the Underworld was as dead as the people she would attempt to contact. Not that she minded. There were some dead she had no desire to see.
Sera pulled open her door, then slammed it shut behind her. She stomped up the stairs and into her tiny dim room in the dormitory’s tower. None of the other scholarship students were forced to live in such cramped and squalid quarters. It was small and damp, and her decor an amalgamation of broken and dated furniture, but it was hers. And on days like this, she treasured the solitude found within its four walls, however crumbling they were.
With a hefty sigh, she fell onto her chair, the legs wobbling under her weight. Her hard-set face gazed back at her from the metal pitcher in the center of the wooden worktable. She set down her book, dragged the jug close, and shook her head. Her fair skin was blotchy, and brown strands of her hair had slipped out from the bun on top of her head that was now askew thanks to Whittaker’s mistake.
“Never mind if I would have gotten hurt.” She brushed away the hairs that fell onto her face and wiped the smear of blood on her cheek. Hot tears pooled in her eyes, and her reflection blurred. “They wouldn’t have cared. No one does, and you must remember this.”
Hating the break in her voice, she set down the jug just as the bells tolled the hour.
Five.
If she was going to pass her Aetherium entrance assessment, she would need to increase her magic reserves. The exam was a tedious week-long affair, and fatigue simply wouldn’t do. She scrubbed away her tears, rose, and turned to lock the door. With Mary in the infirmary—no doubt milking the small cut for all it was worth—no one would come to see her. But better to be safe than sorry. The last thing she needed was to blast the poor girl by mistake if she came to visit, as she often snuck in to do.
Sera paused. A note had been slipped under her door. She frowned. Had it been there when she entered? She approached it slowly; no one ever left her notes.
Kneeling, she picked it up and held it to the light. It was addressed to her, though the handwriting was horrendous. She turned it over. A red wax seal kept the note closed, a scripted B embossed upon it. Sera hummed. She didn’t know anyone whose surname began with a B, no one who would write to her anyway.
She slid her finger under the seal and opened it.
My office at eight. Not one minute late.
Barrington
Sera eyed the words, then set the note down slowly on her lap. Barrington?
Before the thought had settled, the edges of the note erupted into flames. Sera yelped and thrust it off her lap. Licks of white fire devoured the page as it floated down. Soon all that remained was a small mound of ash and a charred sliver of paper, a B on its ash-stained facing.
She ran her eyes along the loops of the letter. Her nerves tangled the same. Why would Professor Barrington summon her? She’d never had him for any classes and hadn’t ever had any contact with the man before that afternoon—well, other than moving out of his way as all students did when he stalked across the campus wearing his usual black cloak and frown.
Unless he had seen her use wandless magic…
Sera leaned back against the door and covered her face with her hands, feeling sick. Maybe he’d been pressed for time that afternoon in the library, headed for class or a meeting, and hadn’t the time to consider her actions. But now he had, and he’d changed his mind. He wouldn’t save her at all. What for? She was nothing to him but a seventhborn.
…
Three hours later, Sera peeked out from under her hood and surveyed the fourth-floor corridor. The cold gusts of a November rainstorm had swallowed the torch flames, rendering the Academy hall a tunnel of shadows cut by intermittent shafts of moonlight. Curled into her cloak, she emerged from the staircase, reached the end of the hall, and rounded the bend. One door marked the end of the short hallway, a B carved into its dark oak.
Her fingers clenched. She had to knock, but the war between her mind and gut left her as frozen as the shadows lining the hall. Nothing good waited on the other side of that door. Of this she had no proof, but what good could come of being summoned by Professor Barrington?
She hauled in a breath and knocked on the Alchemy professor’s door.
“Come in,” he spoke from the other side.
Sera rubbed her fingers together and opened the door.
Firelight painted the room in dancing shades of amber and gold, yet Professor Barrington stood in the shadows of the curtained window like a man afraid of light. His face was downcast, focused on the book in his hands. He tapped a finger on his thin lips, his brow furrowed.
Sera cleared her throat. “You wished to see me, Professor?”
The rap of his fingers stopped, and he raised his head to her. “Yes, come in. Close the door behind you.”
Sera lowered her hood and entered the cramped room, closing the door. Shelves crowded the walls, stuffed with books upon books. Various tables were strewn about the room, their tops laden with multicolored jars, mortars, vials, and retorts. Whatever he had brewed last left the earthy scent of cinnamon lingering in the space.
Weaving her way through his mess, she sat before the desk dominated by more books and papers. Some sheets were crumpled into balls, others torn. Were it not for the iron-tipped legs on the table, she would have thought it all to be nothing more than a mound of books and parchment.
Barrington tossed the tome on his desk with a loud thud and sat. Slipping a brown file from somewhere within his mess, he flipped it open.
“I have heard much about you, Miss Dovetail.” He put on wired spectacles and stared at her in silence, as though waiting for a reply.
Sera opened her mouth. She closed it. There was no need to say she hoped it all to be good. The thick file before him proved otherwise.
“An orphan of notable raw power found after setting a building on fire.” He shook his head. “Careless.”
A flush crept into her cheeks, but she folded her hands on her lap and kept her silence. No matter how many times she explained the incident, she would still be found at fault.
He flipped to the next page. “Highly emotional, insubordinate, and confrontational—heavens. Nearly burned down the library in an argument…twice.” He turned a page and the next.
Blowing out a sigh, he shut the file and pushed it away as if having touched something toxic. “Surprisingly, none of this is your worst fault.” He motioned to the seventhborn tattoo at her wrist, a thin black line that wrapped around the flesh like a shackle. “Yet, in spite of this, it says here that you’ve chosen to pursue one of the most challenging positions in the Aetherium. You aspire to become an inspector. Why? You could pursue an Aether-related career. It would be much easier considering your…condition.”
Sera bristled. “I have no desire for telepathy or divination, sir. Majoring in Aether studies will keep me from all Metal, Fire, and Wood levels. Strength, defense, and law courses are all required to become an inspector.”
He scoffed. “I’m a professor, Miss Dovetail. I know how Aetherium course-levels work. But that still doesn’t explain why you want to become an inspector.”
Sera hauled in a steadying breath. The man was a beast, but she wouldn’t lose her temper.
“I’m interested in becoming an inspector and applying my studies to finding out more about my family—”
A low laugh rumbled in his throat, the amber firelight re
flected in his wolf eyes. “What’s there to know? Your mother died giving birth to you, as is the story with every other seventhborn that isn’t aborted.”
She tightened her hands in her lap, prickling heat crawling through her veins like knives beneath her skin. “Yes, but my father—”
“Gave you away in his heartbroken misery, surely.” He sighed away his laughter, slipped off his glasses, and set them on the desk. “You should thank him for being so kind. Many of you are found dead.”
Hot tears stung her eyes, but she forbade them to fall. Not here, before this despicable man. Sera summoned her strength and held her chin high. “Perhaps, but there are still—”
“Your siblings? Do you dream that at least one of them will forgive you for leaving them motherless, probably begging in the streets because their father was too drunk to hold down a position since his wife’s demise?” He sat back and pressed a finger to his thin lips, regarding her keenly. “I wonder if perhaps they should’ve added masochistic tendencies to your file as well.”
She bolted to her feet, and the hanging candelabras flared. “I beg your pardon, Professor, but if you asked me here to ridicule me or think I’m here for your amusement, then you’re a sadder man than I thought. Feel free to add that to my file.” She turned. Surely she’d hear from the headmistress at that—but, blast it all, the chances of her graduating were practically nonexistent, anyway. If the fire in the library hadn’t sealed her fate, surely breaking the statue of Patriarch Aldrich in the dining hall had.
“That’s it, then? That’s all it took to send you running?” He chuckled behind her. “To think I credited you with having more spine. I’m disappointed, really.”
Sera spun, heart crashing against her ribs. “Is this a game to you? You think what’s written there makes you an expert on my life? You know nothing about me.”
“And yet I know it all,” he said mildly, contrary to the darkness in his eyes. “I know that if you don’t control your anger, there is no way you will ever graduate or get the referral you need for the Aetherium entrance exam.” Barrington stood and, hands held behind his back, paced around his desk. “But run if you must. Just like getting angry, it’s your escape.” He stopped at the window and, with a finger, brushed aside the black velvet curtain as though to ascertain the sun was gone.
