“I care,” he says, “so of course I listen.” He looks at me bashfully, his brow furrowed. “Listen, before I get back to work, I was wondering if you wanted to come to a party with me.”
“A party?” It hadn’t occurred to me that we’d hang out a second time.
“It’s nothing formal. You can invite some friends if you want. It’s a Halloween party thrown by St. Adolphus Hall.”
“What’s that?”
“Sort of a secret society. Like Skull and Bones at Yale or the Sphinx at Dartmouth. I know it sounds snotty, but we do know how to have a good time.”
“Am I allowed?” I ask. “I’m not a student.”
“I’m a member. It’s just a party, and you’re my guest. I want you to be there. All you need is the password.” He draws an X in the airwith his finger. It lingers, glowing like embers from a long-dead fire. “Omnes una manet nox. ‘One night—’ ”
“ ‘Awaits everyone,’ ” I finish for him, knowing the phrase without needing my magic. “Horace the poet.”
He raises an impressed eyebrow and laughs. “Of course you’d know. You’re incredible. So is that a yes?”
I chew on my lip, debating. I don’t want to lead him on too much, but…what’s the harm? Atticus and Dorian would die to go, and wearehere to learn and to experience all that Sibylline has to offer. I’d be selfish not to invite them to come with me.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m happy to go…with you.”
Aspen grins for an instant, then he catches himself, as if embarrassed to show his emotions. “Awesome. I mean, good. I can’t wait. Oh, and it’s a masquerade, masks required, so be prepared. Come dressed for the Carnevale.”
“Got it.” My parents used to go to Save Venice parties all the time.
Humming quietly, Aspen leaves, but not without looking over his shoulder at me as he goes. One last glance.
I finish shelving the books on my cart, then make my way to the catalog room. It’s almost empty. My Mary Janes click noisily on the marble floor, echoing as I walk down rows of cabinets that stretch ten feet overhead. The white ceilings glow orange in the soft candlelight of the chandeliers, and the cabinets are made of polished oak stained dark with weathered brass plates attached to every drawer, the knobs sagging with age, the wood worn smooth by human hands. There are thousands of drawers, and I guess it’ll take some time finding Adelina’s alumni record, but my work is done and I am mostly alone. There’s only one other person in the room, another archivist, standing atop a rickety stepladder,a drawer pulled out, flipping through the yellowed cards nestled inside it.
I search for any record that includes the last name Ward, or Warde, or any other phonetic variation, but come up short. I can’t find any proof that someone named Adelina Ward went to Sibylline.
Weird. Don’t big donors love having their names plastered everywhere they send money to? I’m left wondering if this is just a dead end, but then I think maybe I’m looking in the wrong place. What about student papers?
The student archive is a slightly less formal space than the primary atrium. It’s small compared to the main archive, with only a few cabinets full of notable student papers. Sibylline loves to keep records of its students’ work. And, just like I hoped, I find a listing for an undergraduate thesis by a student named A. L. Ward. It’s a treatise published in 1924. The card claims it is a paper outlining the summoning of matter from chaos. This is her. It has to be.
I check the shelves to read her completed treatise but come up empty-handed. I search the surrounding shelves and double-check, just to be sure I didn’t miss it.
Nothing.
It seems like the paper no longer exists.
I make my way back to the circulation desk to see if I can track down the paper in some other way, but I find its section of the library is roped off. Inside the roped area, an instructor speaks in hushed tones, conducting what appears to be a class involving several of the library’s texts. The books are chained to heavy wooden desks, preventing them from wandering, like Aspen told me they could. The teacher is lecturing in the middle of the library instead of some classroom. It’s amazing, the lengths this school will go toin order to keep the knowledge in their books locked tight and secure.
“Enunciation is key,” the teacher says, walking down the row of seated students. “Any slight variation in accent or intonation can lead to improper results.”
I wonder, once more, if I might have made some small error in either one when I called the lightning, mispronouncing a word or maybe even just a syllable. Maybe then I wouldn’t have made such a mess. I don’t know, and hearing the professor talk about the very subject that concerns me makes me more jealous of the students than ever.
I wish I could try it again. My fingers itch to do it. I know I hurt Dorian, but I want to make fire again. I want to be better. IknowI can be better. Sure, I might make little mistakes along the way, but it’s what we came here for, isn’t it? To use our power?
A small voice in the back of my mind wonders if that’s true. Is setting one of your best friends on fire a “little mistake”? But I don’t listen to it.
I have power, and I can prove it. I need to.
Instead of going back to my desk, like I should, I stop and listen, watching as the students practice repetition and spell construction. I open my journal, thinking I might jot down a few notes, but a gust of wind kicks up, fluttering the book’s pages. I slap my hand down to stop it, before realizing how strange that is. Wind indoors?
I glance toward the class. A gentle breeze ruffles everyone’s hair and clothing. At the center of it all, a girl leans over her own book, chanting an incantation. All at once, I understand the words. I know she’s speaking in Mesopotamian, and I translate in my head.
“—call forth thee, in thy name, to manifest, in form, and freedom—”
