“We haven’t gone anywhere,” Atticus says, pinching a piece of his cinnamon roll with his thumb and index finger and slipping it into his mouth. His fingers are still covered in sugar. Has he always had a dimple on his chin? I’ve never noticed before.
“What’s up with you?” Raven asks me. “You seem distracted.”
“I’m okay,” I say, taking another sip, my tongue absorbing the sweet flavors of cocoa and cinnamon. “Same as always.”
Atticus doesn’t buy it. “You’re having visions?”
My right eye twitches when I tell a lie, and he often notices. Even without his abilities, he can read me. With them, he can probe my thoughts and feelings, and hiding anything from himis next to impossible. I know he can’t shut it off easily; it’s not his fault. Hiding gifts or surprises from him requires Fort Knox levels of mental control.
“Yeah, it’s just getting harder for me to control my magic.”
“What happened?” she asks.
I’m not sure what to say. I’m not even surewhatI saw in Old Bones. “You know how I have to touch items in the museum to verify their origins? Well, it makes me super tired. I haven’t used this much magic in…ever.”
A line appears between Atticus’s eyebrows. He knows I’m not telling them everything, but he lets it pass, saying, “I’ve been wondering. Do either of you feel like you’re…different here?” He licks his lips and shifts in his seat, almost excitedly. “Like, do you feel…stronger?”
Slowly, I nod. It’s like this whole campus is teeming with magic, and it’s flowing through everything and everyone here.
Raven nods, too. “Being surrounded by all these people who live and breathe magic…Maybe it’s rubbing off on us.”
Steady but soft, Raven’s dark eyes hold mine. A lock of her straight, shiny black hair has fallen across her shoulder, and the desire to tuck it behind her ear makes my hands burn. The gap between us is almost unbearable. I wonder what it would be like to touch her, to feel her skin, and slot my fingers in between hers. What it would be like to kiss her. But I can’t remember the last time I let anyone touch me, even a loving kiss on the head from my mother.
“Our plan is working, then,” I say, changing the subject. “Being at Sibylline even as staffisdoing something to us.”
“Yeah, well, but I want more,” Raven says as she peels apart her cinnamon roll. She doesn’t mask her resentment. She’s still angrywe’ve been denied, and desire has burrowed deep in all three of us. We want to learn, we want to know, we want to be who we’re meant to be.
“So do I,” Atticus says mildly. “Any ideas?”
“There’s a recitation on magical theory tomorrow morning at Piranesi Hall. I saw a flyer in the library,” Raven says. “What if we slip in, catch a little lesson?”
“What if we get caught?” asks Atticus.
“What are they gonna do, fire us?” Raven says.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s exactly what they can do.”
Raven’s eyes sparkle mischievously. “Then we don’t get caught.”
—
In the graylight of dawn, we join the mass of robed students pouring through the central gates and into the square. My heart pounds with anticipation as we stride through the arch toward Piranesi Hall. It’s a three-story-tall brick building, with large stone steps flanked by stone lions on either side. The lions seem so lifelike, I half wonder if they’ll spring up and maul trespassers. But we walk with our heads down so the hoods cover our faces and we blend in with the crowd. No one around us speaks, as if it’s part of some ritual, a somber occasion that requires the utmost focus and respect. But I can practically feel Atticus vibrating with excitement next to me. He catches my eye, grinning, and a surge of something like joy spreads inside of me.
The moment we step into the auditorium, Atticus’s hand tugs on the sleeve of my robe.
“This way,” he says, pulling me aside. I barely have enough time to grab on to Raven’s sleeve as we split apart from the rest of the students, taking red-carpeted stairs up to the higher levels, checking over our shoulders just in case someone’s spotted us.
The auditorium is dark except for the single spotlight shining down on the center of the dais, the lecturer waiting in the wings. Red velvet curtains frame the stage. The mezzanine is empty, but we keep low as we crouch along the balcony wall. The student body below us buzzes quietly, anticipation permeating the air. Atticus stops in the middle of the row, making Raven and me pause, too, and he lowers his hood to peek out above the railing. A strip of light illuminates his eyes, and I can tell he’s smiling.
“Perfect view,” he says.
On my other side, Raven kneels to also look over the balcony. “Someone’s coming,” she says.
It’s my turn to look. Sure enough, a lone figure walks onto the stage, clad in dark robes like everyone else, the hood raised high. My heart pounds when I realize this is it, this is what we’ve been working toward. We’re actually going to learn a little magic. The figure onstage lowers their hood, and the room falls quiet.
“Good morning.” The lecturer is a man whose face I recognize: Jeremiah Stone, warden of Sibylline. The highest-ranking administrator. He’s an older man, his face lined with age, hair long. A ruby earring glimmers in one ear. He wears dark robes, making it look as if he’s made of shadows interrupted only by the whiteness of his hair and face. Even from this distance, I can tell his eyes are blue as Arctic water. “Welcome to the first recitation of magical theory.”
“He’s hot,” jokes Atticus. “Pleasetell me he’s single.”
