“It’s a diary,” I say. “The first entry, it’s dated from 1917.” Then I read the first line, “ ‘Everyone said it couldn’t be done.’ ” I pause. The rest of the page is smeared, the ink faded. “I can’t read the rest.” I move to flip the page, but Dorian puts a gloved hand on top of mine, stopping me.
“It’s just a dead body. It’s not going to hurt us,” I say, tempering my annoyance.
I’m right, and he knows it. He glances at Atticus, who looks like he might vomit.
“We came all the way down here. Let’s see this through. This might be our last shot here, Atticus,” I remind him. “Do you really want to run away now?”
Atticus swallows thickly. “Dead people freak me out,” he says, but he stays put. I’ve won.
Dorian sighs. “Fine, Raven, wait. I want us to try something,” he says.
“Try what?”
He takes off his gloves and holds out his hand. “Do you trust me?”
I stare at his bare fingers, at his skin. We’ve never touched before. And somehow, the prospect feels oddly intimate. I glance in Atticus’s direction.
Atticus stares at Dorian, battling himself, before he comes over. “I’m going to hate this.”
“I know,” Dorian says.
He places one hand on the book, and Atticus places his hand on Dorian’s, and they wait for me to do the same. I reach out tentatively, wondering what we’ll see. Too late to stop myself, I join them, and I’m sucked into inky blackness.
—
I’m teleported somewhereelse…another time, another place.
We’re not underground anymore. Sunlight streams into large windows, casting puddles of light onto a polished desk. Students dressed in black robes sit at attention. We’re in a classroom. At Sibylline. The school crest hangs on a plaque above the door, a single eye watching over everyone.
I’m in the middle of the classroom, still holding on to Dorian’s hand. It’s as solid as the new world around me. Atticus is here, too. We stare at each other, wondering if this is really happening.
I try to ask where we are, but I can’t. My mouth moves, but no sound comes out. I’m simply an observer. We’re shades traveling through history, haunting another time. His power has pulled us into the journal, into the memories imprinted when it was held.
Dorian looks at me, nodding, assuring me that this is okay, and I turn back to the scene in front of us. A teacher lectures a classroom of students.
“—elements require balance,” he says, finishing an elaborate alchemical circle on the chalkboard. “The natural world requiresan equilibrium. Much like Newton’s laws of motion, there are laws of magic. For example, Newton’s second law states that the acceleration of an object is directly proportional to the force applied to it. In other words, the stronger the spell caster, the bigger the result. Finally, Newton’s third law dictates that when there is an action, there is always an equal and opposite reaction. When a spell caster exerts his will, the world itself pushes back. In this way the balance of forces is maintained. Let me show you how this works.”
The professor writes a series of equations on the board, prompting everyone in the room to open their journals and take notes. One student stands out among the rest. She’s sitting at the front of the class, her head bowed as she writes in a leather-bound book. It’s the same book Atticus took from Professor White.
Adelina.
She’s small in stature, her auburn hair cut into a short, wavy bob, stylish for the time. A smattering of freckles dots the bridge of her nose, and her bright green eyes look like emeralds. Like the other students, she’s wearing black robes. Around her neck is a delicate silver chain, and she keeps one hand wrapped around the pendant as she writes furiously.
I notice she has a graded test tucked under the journal. She aced it.
But she’s not writing down what the teacher is saying. She’s scribbling a mixture of Greek, Latin, and…Akkadian, almost like a secret code. In fact, she’s not paying attention to the lesson at all; she’s working on something else entirely.
The teacher drones on about the balancing force of nature until Adelina raises her hand. “Yes?” the teacher asks curiously.
Adelina looks up from her journal, her face bright with anticipation as she asks, “What about chaos?”
“Chaos?”
“Yes, primordial chaos. The chasm from which the universe was born.”
The professor furrows his brow. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Miss Ward.”
“Do the same laws apply for the manipulation of chaos?”
