“Am I not good enough for your brother, or is he not good enough for me? What, exactly, is your objection to our—”
“That isenough!” he snarled through clenched teeth, hands fisted at his sides. “It isn’t your fault that you don’t know what you’re talking about, but that doesn’t change the truth of the matter.”
“Sotellme what we’re talking about.”
For a moment, he looked thoroughly, vengefully tempted to do precisely that. But then his mouth snapped shut. I could practically see him turning the key in the vault, locking away whatever he knew of my pre-amnesia existence, because of some discord I could not remember.
Footsteps and the rustle of clothing drew my gaze to the door as it opened. Wilder stepped inside, holding a cloth-wrapped bundle tucked beneath one arm. From it emanated the scents of fresh bread, strong cheese, and some sort of roasted fowl.
An errant dark blond wave fell across his forehead. His gaze flicked from me to his brother, who towered over me now, dominating the center of my private chamber with nothing more than the space his broad form required and the words still echoing in my head.
“Well, I see Desmond has been spreading his usual good cheer.” Wilder sounded positively merry, despite the obvious tension. “What have I missed?”
“Not a thing.” I stared boldly up at Desmond, who held my gaze with a steely-eyed one of his own. “Your brother was just leaving.”
“Do I know any of them?”
I scanned the quadrangle stretched out before us: a rolling lawn accented with artistically trimmed shrubs, geometrically shaped flower beds, and meandering stone-paved walkways. Moving across the space were half a dozen young people dressed in variations of my student uniform. Most wore gray dresses or slacks, but the occasional flash of a blue belt, a green ribbon, or a rust-colored vest caught my eye as well.
Wilder tucked his arm through mine, bumping against my satchel as we headed down one of the stone paths, and the gesture felt both affectionate and bit…intentional. As if the display of affection were signaling something.
I couldn’t decide how I should feel about that. We’d spent half our childhood scampering through Innswood arm in arm, but this felt different. Our relationship had clearly matured along with our bodies, and fifteen-year-old Amber would have been thrilled to see Wilder looking at me then the way he was looking at me now—as more than a playmate. Or at least, as a differentkindof playmate.
And the truth was that amnesiac Amber was more than a little thrilled as well. Wilder was confident and charming, and his eyes sparkled a brilliant shade of blue. His attention felt like the warmth of the sun on my face.
But the cavernous pit of my memory was difficult to bridge. How had we evolved from friends into lovers? What was the catalyst for that transformation? Had he suddenly looked at me differently one morning, over tea? Had our hands brushed in the tight confines of a shared lab space?
His attention followed mine, flitting from face to face across the quadrangle, his arm warm in my grip. “They’re underclassmen.”
“All of them?” I asked.
He nodded. “I don’t know the Fundamentals-year students yet. And I must say, they look young. But I know most of the Proficiency cohort.”
“As do I, I suppose?”
He considered the question for a moment. “At a glance, certainly. But I’d be shocked if you knew many of their names. You’ve always been less social than I.”
“Speaking of which…” I tightened my grip on Wilder’s arm. “Why does Desmond hate me?”
I caught his quizzical look from the corner of my eye, but his steps did not falter. “Hedoesseem a bit cross. But I’m fairly certain that’s his natural state, at least since he graduated.”
“He wasn’t like that as a student?”
Wilder shrugged. “He was in his Mastery year when we were in Fundamentals, and he had little time or patience for us. But he does seem much grouchier since he joined the Alchemary staff. My conclusion has long been that adults have no time for fun.”
I glanced up at him. “Wilder,we’readults.”
He shook his head solemnly. “We’re merelyof age. There’s a difference.”
I considered his theory as we turned right onto a north pathway, headed toward the Seminary with its impressive central clock tower. “But he seemed quite specifically convinced that I don’t deserve to be here. Can you shed any light on that matter?”
Wilder stopped abruptly and turned to face me. “Amber, you are the most gifted student in our cohort. Quite possibly the most gifted student in a generation. If Desmond is angry, it’s because that’s what they used to say abouthim, beforeyoucame along.”
The Seminary—the academic heart of the campus—was an imposing building, both inside and out. It was three stories of brownish stone, with a spiraling turret staircase on each end, both capped in sloping, round copper roofs that had long ago oxidized into a green patina.
Inside, the first floor boasted large lecture halls, meeting rooms, and the library; the second floor held smaller classrooms, professors’ offices, and conference rooms; and the third floor was taken up with various laboratory spaces and storage.
Wilder led me left from the entrance, past the central split staircase and into the western wing of the building. My heart thumped as we came to a stop outside an imposing set of doors. They were tall and arched at the top, made of heavy, formal carved panels of a dark-stained wood, standing open like the gates of hell. The buzz of voices from inside said I was among the last to arrive. And that the Fundamentals-year students were very excited to attend their first class at the Alchemary.
