But then I realized the pages were marked with a somewhat complicated numerical code, and I reorganized them all chronologically so I could experience my work in the order I’d done it, allowing me to learn along with Past Amber, as she hopefully explained her thoughts and theories in the order she’d come up with them. Progressing in complexity and difficulty.
As I stared at the stacks, leaning into the flickering light of the desktop lamp, my gaze landed on the small wooden chest I’d been using as a paperweight. It was no longer than my forearm. The hinged top was slightly arched, with a simple clasp on the front.
A warm tightness spread beneath my rib cage as an old memory settled into place. The chest had belonged to my mother. When I was little, she’d kept her most valuable and difficult-to-acquire alchemical components inside, in carefully corked and labeled vials and bottles. So that was what I expected to find when I opened the latch and lifted the lid.
Instead, I found only two things: a ring with a single lustrous, clear gem, and a small book of parchment bound with a soft leather cover.
The ring was a simple gold band, the stone distinctive for its size and its round shape with few, large planes.
Rose cut. The words echoed through my mind. The rose cut prized luster over glitter, though I had no idea how I knew that.
Curious, I tried the ring on, but while it was too big for my smallest finger, it was too small for the others.
It must have been my mother’s. If it were a diamond, that thought would feel ridiculous. My parents had never been wealthy. But this was almost certainly lead glass, produced through an alchemical process of the sort my mother had had a particular knack for, which she would occasionally make and sell to women in our village who could not afford precious stones. I had no memory of her wearing this piece, but I’d discovered after her death that there were several things I hadn’t known about her.
Holding the ring gave me a vague feeling of nostalgia. I missed herenormously.
The book was plain by the standards of any library volume—I knew that, though I couldn’t recall having been in the Alchemary’s library—still, it was quite an expensive personal possession.
My hands shook as I lifted it, noting that its pages formed a thickness equal to two of my fingers. It felt…important. Like that feeling I’d had earlier, that there was something I was forgetting. Something beyond the bulk of my recent memories.
I flipped carefully through the pages, expecting to find instructions or theories. I expected the book to be an alchemical text I’d borrowed from the library or from one of my professors— something I could study as I worked to catch up with my classmates and recover lost knowledge.
But the book was not what I’d expected, in several ways. First, nearly one-third of the pages were blank; it was a journal, not a textbook. And oddly, while I recognized the curves and truncations particular to my own handwriting, I could not recognize the language I’d written in.
I knew some of the letters, but others appeared foreign. Some of the symbols were just that—not letters, truly, and not numbers, but some other form of notation.
Given that I had written the contents—of that, I had no doubt—I should be able to understand it. So why…
A firm knock echoed against the door. I dropped the journal on my desk and leapt up to answer it, expecting to see Wilder, his arms loaded with food.
Instead, I found Desmond standing alone on the dark landing.
“Ihope you’ve come to apologize,” I said, one hand on the doorjamb to block Desmond’s path. Barging into my room once was one time too many.
His eyes narrowed at me, and the lantern from the landing half a floor down caught his irises, which flared red-brown in the light. “Assuredlynot. I don’t expect you to be happy about what I said to the Bluehelm, but I certainly expect you to respect my opinion.”
I glared up at him. “Desmond, why on earth would I respect an opinion intended to see me exiled from the institute I’ve dreamed of attending since I was a child?”
He looked as frustrated as I felt. And more than a little offended. “Because it was a logical recommendation, based on an honest assessment of your capabilities.” His irritation intensified, until I somehow felt both angry with him and ashamed of myself in equal measure. “We may seldom agree, but we’ve always been able to respectfullydisagree,” he said, and the deep, stern quality of his voice—an oddlypersonalsort of censure—triggered an unexpected flush just beneath my skin. “We’ve always been able to appreciate each other as rational individuals. For the most part.”
My brows rose as I stared up at him. “What, may I ask, would the lesser part look like?”
He scowled over my shoulder, scanning the room behind me. “You have been known, on occasion, to indulge a less-than- rational impulse.”
Oh.Wilder.
“I’m alone.” I pushed the door all the way open to support my claim. Not because it was any of his business, but because I was already quite weary of feeling caught between the Gregory brothers. I’d played peacemaker and tiebreaker for half of my childhood, and I had no intention of reprising that role as an adult.
“In that case, may I come in?”
“Are you prepared to apologize?”
His scowl darkened. “The Amber Fallbrook I knew as of yesterday would never have asked me to.”
“I’mnot that Amber!” Frustration spilled up from my soul like a geyser. “I don’t even know who she was! I don’t know whoyouare. Notthisversion of you, anyway.” I glanced over his formal, asymmetrical cape, across the broad expanse of his shoulders, but then my gaze snagged on his obviously trim and powerful torso, and heat gathered in my face.
My focus snapped back up to his eyes.
