Sondre was settled in his quarters, wondering what fresh hell was demanding attention when he heard the thundering knocking on the door. He wasn’t sure whether it would be more frustrating to have Monahan or Maggie there. Dealing with this crop of damnable students was wearing him down.
“Keep your trousers on!”
He stomped to the door, jerked it open, and stopped silent. Of all the guests Sondre expected in his rooms, the last person he ever thought to see darken his door was the snake herself, but there she was.
“Prospero? Stealing me a few steaks didn’t turn us into friends,” he said, not moving to welcome her into his private space or slamming the door.
“I am well aware of that, but this is not a social call, Sondre. I am here to speak to theheadmaster. No matter the witch in that position, I would have had to come here. As it turns out, you are the witch in that role currently.” She strode past him without invitation.
“We can go out to—”
“No,” she interrupted. “Not on this matter.”
Sondre closed the door. His hand fisted anxiously at the fact that she was in his space. “So why are youhere?”
“No choice.”
He noted the pinch at the corner of her eyes. He used to cherish that pinch. It meant he was getting to her, upsetting her, and he took pride in that victory.
But then she said, “No student can go to the infirmary, Headmaster. I need you to shift classes, if you must, so as to protect the new witches from any mishaps that might require help, especially with Miss Brandeau’s unpredictability.”
For a moment, he simply crossed his arms and stared at her, marveling at her audacity. “You might be able to give orders on the street and in Congress, but at the coll—”
“There are thirteen corpses.” She crossed her arms, mimicking his posture, posing as if she had actual emotions. He had always thought that was highly unlikely. Anyone who spent over a century erasing lives and altering memories was a monster. He was fairly sure of that much.
Prospero’s voice wavered slightly as she added, “Thirteen dead witches today, Sondre. Our people. Dead.”
“What?”
“Thirteen sudden deaths of Crenshaw witches,” she clarified. “I wanted to speak with you personally before we convene the Congress.”
Sondre stomped over to the case of beer he’d brought back on their last supply run. Beer didn’t solve anything, but it brought him a sliver of calm in a way that only fighting or fucking typically did. And he didn’t have time for either if there was a mass casualty. He pulled a can out.
That wasn’t to happen.
The uptight Victorian witch across from him held out a hand. “May I have one, too? I could stand a drink or three tonight, Sondre, and I don’t think I can be at the tavern around everyone right now. I was there, but I couldn’t stay. Not tonight…” She shrugged.
Mutely, he pulled a second can out of the case and handed her one. The beers were as cold as he could manage, considering where they were,so he was sharing lukewarm beer in a can. To him, it was still delicious. He couldn’t imagine Prospero as a beer-in-a-can person. To Sondre, she had always seemed too uptight for such normal things.
He gaped a little as she cracked the can and took a long drink. Whatever details she had on the deaths were clearly upsetting.
“Mae had thirteen witches die on her today for no reason. Blue skin. Rapid aging.” Prospero took another drink. “I don’t have time to negotiate. Neither do you. Our people are dying and I… I cannot fucking figure out what we should do. You and I both know that neither of our solutions is the right one. We need something else.”
“Wait.” Sondre clutched his drink. “Is Maesick?”
Did we kill Mae?His stomach churned at the thought. The rift was only to injure the weakest witches.No kids here to risk. And our oldest have lived for centuries.It was a calculated decision.
Prospero sighed loudly. “I don’t know. I sent her to her chambers to rest and quarantine—”
“She agreed to that?” Sondre couldn’t picture Mae being compliant, even if she were sick.
Prospero gave him a look, and he felt foolish.Panic is clouding my mind.Mae agreed because Prospero messed with her head. That was the only way the dedicated doctor would hide willingly. And Prospero altered people’s minds with no remorse, as if she were entitled to control what people thought and felt.
“Mae might be sick. She might be fine. I have no idea how we’d know, though. She had no idea what caused everyone to die,” Prospero said with an edge to her voice. “What I know for certain is that she was traumatized and panicking. Perhaps she was seeking the chief witch or maybe she was looking for you. She found me. I handled it.”
Prospero was an excellent liar; framing lies as “maybe” or “perhaps” allowed her to lie convincingly, so Sondre didn’t point out that if Mae wanted to see him, she wasn’t going to be roaming the streets of the town. She knew exactly where to find him. The infirmary was here, in a wing of the castle, not somewhere away from where she was when thewitches had died. Mae was seeking either the chief witch or Prospero—who was trying to spare his feelings for some reason.
Gently Prospero added, “Maybe she just needed to walk to clear her panic.”
