From the way he’s looking at me, the intensity in his eyes, I realize this is going to be easier than I dreamed.
“It won’t happen again.”
A small, charming smile appears on his lips, making him look even more like a Labrador, eager to please. “Maybe you can repay me by joining me for coffee. How’s tonight?”
“Oh,” I say, blinking. I didn’t even have to ask. His smile is warm and hopeful, and it makes me feel all the more wicked for using him. He truly has no idea that he’s doing the work for me. I swallow the lump in my throat. “Sure, I’d like that.”
“There’s this place, the Acroteria. Have you heard of it?”
“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites.”
Aspen beams. “Then it’s perfect. Let me just pack up my things, and we’ll go.”
“Sounds great,” I say.
When he’s gone, I take the key to the Eastern Archive from the ring and stuff the rest of the keys back into his pocket.
And not a moment too soon.
“Ready?” He’s back, his messenger bag thrown over his shoulder and his eyes bright with expectation.
“Yeah!” I say, a little breathless.
I extend his jacket toward him, and he slips it back on, patting his pocket and checking that his keys are still there. My heart leaps into my throat, and I expect him to pull them out and check if any are missing, but he doesn’t.
Outside, the sky is clear but the air is cool, and my warm breath makes icy-white clouds drift from my lips. I stuff my hands into the pockets of my coat to keep them warm and finger the stolen key, trying to maintain my composure as Aspen and I walk down the stairs to the street. At the bottom, there’s a small group of people with handmade signs sitting on the sidewalk. They don’t look like Sibylline students; they’re wearing puffy parkas, not student robes, and when they see us, one woman rushes forward,brandishing a cardboard sign. She stops me at the bottom of the stairs, blocking my path.
“Do the right thing!” she says, a wild look in her eye. Her placard says the wordsBlood on Your Hands. “Please, you have to listen to us before—”
“That’s enough,” a deep voice says from down the sidewalk.
A group of glowering security guards are marching toward us. Leading them is Warden Stone. He was the one who had spoken. His icy blue eyes are narrow as he glares at the woman. They glint with an otherworldly glow.
The woman’s eyes widen, and her mouth closes. Panic creeps across her stiffened face. She lets out a kind of wail behind her closed lips, and I take a step back, suddenly fearful. Growing up in New York, I’m used to people acting strangely on the street, on the subway. It’s just a part of living in a big city. But there’s something about the look on her face that makes my blood freeze.
The woman moans, gripping her head in her hands, and her friends hurry to her side, asking her if she’s okay as the guards rush in and break them up and Warden Stone’s gaze turns to us, eyes cold.
“Come on,” says Aspen, touching my arm. “We should go.”
I hesitate, watching as the woman and the other protesters are forcefully led away by the guards. It doesn’t feel right at all. I want to speak up, to say something, but Aspen is adamant. “We’re not allowed to talk to them,” he says. “It’s policy. They could fire us if they see us engaging with them.”
“Fired?” I ask, stunned. “For having a conversation?”
Warden Stone calls out instructions to the guards to escort them from campus as he gathers up the protesters’ signs. His gaze moves toward us, his features hardening.
“Come on,” Aspen says again. “There’s nothing we can do.”
I follow him down the street, remembering how the woman looked at me, the unnatural way her mouth was snapped shut, the effort she made trying to open it.
“What was that back there?” I ask as I catch up to Aspen. “Was that magic?”
He cringes uncomfortably. “A simple spell. It’s not permanent. Warden Stone silenced them. I’ve seen him do it once or twice.”
“So this has happened before? Why haven’t I heard anything about these protests?”
“That’s the point. Sibylline is good at keeping things quiet.”
Literally,I think. I glance over my shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of the protesters again, but they’re gone. What was that all about? I can’t shake the image of the woman’s face, frozen in fear, her mouth held closed by magic. Aspen and I barely talk. I hardly notice him when he stops at the Acroteria, where he buys us drinks to go. He offers me tea, and we walk, strolling the campus green. By the time we loop back to the Rosette, there’s no sign of the protesters or the guards or Stone. The sidewalk is empty, illuminated by squares of orange light from the nearby buildings. My tea is too hot, and I haven’t taken a sip.
