“Typically, it’s against my will.”
He doesn’t hide his amusement, but his expression softens. “I’ve never been able to ignore someone who is struggling to catch their breath.”
Veda looks down at her hands, emotions forming an uncomfortable lump in her throat.
“I was a child when I lost my vision in a car accident. My Sight manifested as a result. It was a constant sensory overload that only eased when I had help learning to shut the world out and restore my strength. I learned that my answer wasn’t solitude, it was family and community. That is what I hope I’ve taught you.”
“I have a community: Peter, Khadijah, Gabriel, sometimes Francisco, and you.”
“But you need more. Isn’t it lonely with no one to tend to you?”
A childlike vulnerability emerges. Veda wants to hug herself for the comfort she pretends to never need. “Time isn’t on my side.”
“Time doesn’t take sides,” Clinton replies gently. “Don’t waste energy chasing it. It’s beyond your control. Use what you have wisely, and you will not walk through hell alone. Protect your strength. Open yourself to possibilities. What is meant to happen will.”
Veda feels worse than she did when she sat down. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It’s not intended to.” He pauses. “Let yourself stand still, but do not stop.”
Veda shuts her eyes.
“What do you hear?” Clinton asks after a while.
“The bees. The breeze. The birds. The rustling trees. The incoming storm.”
“I hear disorder.”
Whether in her or in nature, he doesn’t say.
Weston Academy’s greenhouse is a marvelous mixture of magic and technology.
Designed to expand when needed and withstand anything short of a meteor strike, the greenhouse started as four glass panes bound by powerful incantations. Now two stories tall, it boasts a roof that shifts with the weather and the movement of the sun. Whimsical and cozy, it’s cloaked in wisteria and ivy, blending seamlessly into the school’s landscape. Inside, it’s more impressive: a methodically organized maze of rich foliage, herbs, lush local and tropical trees, and rows of vegetables and flowers. Plants are potted, trellised, or hung from the ceilings and along the circular steps leading to the upper gardens and work areas. Everything bursts with color.
Veda’s job is to monitor everything, plants and staff alike. The work is mundane, but she finds comfort in the routine, especially as her life spirals elsewhere. Midway through her morning tasks, she glances from the glass balcony and spots a disruption.
Everett Simpson is so nondescript, he seems faceless. A wiry beard elongates his face, and his sandy-brown hair fades gray at the temples. He looks like the sort who enjoys dry oats and has niche hobbies, like fly-fishing. A Seer and the school’s new veterinarian, he replaced hispredecessor last year. Veda has always been polite, but since the start of the year, something about him has unsettled her.
“Can I help you, Dr. Simpson?” she calls.
His head swivels in three directions before he spots her. “Oh, there you are, Veda.”
The casual use of her name sharpens her suspicion.
“Is there something you need?” she asks.
Undeterred, he weaves through the winding paths to the spiral staircase. When Everett reaches her, Veda’s arms are crossed. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t let anyone up here without a bachelor’s in magi-horticulture or a PhD in herbal biotechnology.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to shout.” Everett looks chastened. “I just—here.”
He all but shoves a folded paper in her hands and quickly retreats. Confused, Veda starts to open it until a glance at the clock jolts her memory. She’s late for her meeting with Antaris.
“Shit.”
Veda sprints to the school. By the time she reaches Peter’s office, she’s breathless and ready to apologize, but stops short at the sight of Antaris pacing. His hand absently skims the spine of each book on the lower row once, then again. It’s methodical. Five steps to the left, five to the right. Veda clears her throat, and he stops, startled, before his eyebrows knit in cautious observation. Every child has their own version of chaos. She’s certain Antaris’s is buried deep, but for now, he’s unnervingly composed. It’s been less than five minutes, and Veda is already at a loss, nervous that if she opens her mouth, the wrong thing will spill out, and she’ll scare him off like a wild animal prone to run.
She takes the first step, just as hesitant. “Hi, Antaris.”
Antaris keeps staring. It’s uncomfortable. Veda usually relies on August’s chatter to guide her, but this child offers no such cues.
