She brings her hands to her own face—and starts the process on herself.
My frown feels so very much like my own.
The stings and aches and burns nipping at my face are still there.
It doesn’t feel like I have someone else’s face at all.
I don’t ask if it worked.
I watch it happen to her.
As her hands lower over her own body, and she crouches down all the way to reach her boots, I watch the illusion wash over her like a stream—
Then Master Lockwood rises to full height in front of me.
I blink at him—her—once, then the coin purse is taken from my hold.
“Ok.” Master Lockwood nods. And I hear the words in his voice. “You’re Silva—and if anyone stops you or tries to talk to you, say there’s an emergency and get away.”
I nod… or rather, Master Silva nods, and in a blink, Serena is stalking down the hallway to the grand parlour.
I rush to follow at her heels.
Serena slips through the gap in the door.
I follow, a shadow behind her.
And the swell of the parlour swallows me, whole. The excited Sunday chatter, the shouts across the room, the rustle of the curtains, the crunching of chips being shovelled into mouths.
I swerve my gaze from student to student, face to face, so enveloped by their own existences that most don’t spare a look our way.
The ones who do glance at us don’t look for longer than a second or two. It’s not entirely unusual for masters to be in the grand parlour. Not after a fight erupts between students—but that also means word has gotten out about what went down this morning in the corridor.
Word travels fast in this academy.
Serena moves faster, her swift purposeful strides that of a master on a mission, and she aims for the door.
We close in on it—but as we do, I spot Asta.
She’s slumped against the wall too close to the door, like she’s just come through it, but Landon stopped her from going any further into the parlour.
My lashes flutter at the sight of her.
Bloodshot eyes, tear-stained cheeks, a wobbling mouth, and a pleading, pained gaze fixed up at Landon.
I forgot.
I forgot they were friends. Close, even.
Landon’s face is twisted, brimming with compassion, something I’ve never seen on him before. He hunches over her, speaking in a soft murmur that I pick up as we pass them for the door—
“He’s never deserved you, Asta. I told you that. He’s not even worth the tears you’re shedding for him now.”
Whatever she says in response, whatever else he might add, it’s lost to me as Serena slips through the door, like none of that interests her at all.
I follow.
We step right into a buzz of students, a dozen of them, moving at the slowest pace imaginable.
