The classroom.
Practical Applications: Confronting the Dark Arts.
“Oh,” I said faintly.
Stella nodded, lips pursed in grim satisfaction. “Yes. Oh.”
Twobble threw his hands into the air. “See? See? The Academy is already being cheeky about it.”
“That’s not why…” I started, then stopped, because the Academy hummed, just a touch louder, and I had the uneasy sense it was listening.
I shook my head. “No. That was never in my cards.”
Keegan glanced at me, not at Gideon, not at Twobble, but atme, and something in his expression tensed. He studied my face the way he did when he was reading the room through me, measuring how much weight I was carrying without saying it.
For a split second, something fluttered low in my belly. It wasn’t butterflies suddenly pulling me to him, but something steadier and warmer. The awareness that he cared enough to be watching this closely.
Jealousy?
Probably not.
Concerned. More likely.
“I’m not appointing him to anything,” I said calmly, turning back to Twobble before my thoughts could wander further off course. “I’m not hiring, assigning, or mentoring anyone. Especially not Gideon.”
Twobble narrowed his eyes. “But.”
“But,” I agreed, “it’s also not my decision.”
That gave everyone pause.
“The Academy chooses its professors,” I continued evenly. “It always has. It puts out the call when it wants knowledge returned to disseminate.”
Ardetia nodded, serene as ever. “That’s true.”
Bella, who’d turned to leaning against a desk with her arms crossed, straightened and nodded as well. “Happened to me. I didn’t apply. I was informed.”
Twobble grimaced. “That explains a lot.”
Gideon hadn’t spoken through any of this. He stood a few paces away, posture neutral, expression unreadable, as though he were deliberately refusing to participate in speculation about his future.
Which I didn’t trust.
The Academy hummed again, not approving or denying our conversation.
“That doesn’t mean it’s happening,” I said firmly. “It means the Academy is aware of him. That’s all.”
Stella arched a brow. “The Academy rarely notices without intent.”
“I’m aware,” I replied. “But intent doesn’t equal immediacy.”
Before anyone could argue further, footsteps sounded behind us, accompanied by an indignant, very familiar croak.
My shoulders slumped.
Lady Limora swept into view like she owned the corridor, velvet skirt whispering, silver hair immaculate, eyes gleaming with the delight of someone who’d discovered fresh chaos and intended to savor it. Mara followed close behind, arms crossed,expression long-suffering. Vivienne was already scribbling notes on a floating page. Opal practically vibrated with curiosity.
And dangling upside down from Lady Limora’s hand…
