“Soldiers?” I asked as the men moved rapidly closer. “They’re…training?”
Wilder nodded. “The Crown stations a small number here, for emergencies. There are always two at the gate and two at the dock on the south side of the island, when a delivery is expected. A few more roam the campus, to ‘keep the peace.’ ”
I hadn’t noticed. Of course, I hadn’t been to the bridge or the dock, and I’d been too busy studying and avoiding my classmates to spend much time exploring the campus.
“That seems a bit—” My mouth snapped shut as the soldiers crossed in front of us on the path, and I realized with a start that the fifth, who ran at the tail of the formation, without a partner, wasn’t a soldier at all. He wore a black tunic and loose, dark trousers that were similar but not identical to the others’, and his dark hair shone with caramel undertones in the sunlight.
“That’s Desmond,” I whispered, gripping Wilder’s arm. “Why is he training with the soldiers?”
Wilder huffed. “He’s picked up some strange habits in pursuit of apotheosis. But that one is beyond me.”
I could only stare as the runners passed us, and I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or insulted that Desmond did not look my way. That he did not, in fact, seem to know I was there.
He ran with no visible effort, every stride long, and smooth, and strong. He was in total control of his form—of every joint and every muscle. Each movement seemed the perfect fusion of grace, coordination, and power.
Was this how he’d crossed my room in the blink of an eye, to avert my fall? Was he simply so in tune with his own physical form that it obeyed his impulses before they were quite fully formed?
Had Desmond begun his quest to perfect the human form…with his own?
“And she just sits there the whole time, scribbling on her parchment as if she’s determined to write down every word the professor says.”
Keryth’s whisper carried toward me from the other side of the library shelf. I leaned closer to the bookcase, inhaling the comforting scents of leather bindings and old parchment. Disappointed that they did little to calm the unease fluttering behind my rib cage.
The student library was a low-ceilinged space at the back of the first floor of the Seminary. It held only academic journals, research logs, and textbooks: simple, sturdy volumes intended to be handled by generations of students. There were three or four copies of each, carefully handwritten by scribes kept busy—and likely wealthy—with a standing order from the Alchemary to copy and replace the aging volumes. Students had unlimited access to the books but were not allowed to remove them from the library. And we were expected to share.
Researchers, however…
Wilder had told me there was a research library in the Conservatory, accessible only to permanent staff of the Alchemary. That library contained one-of-a-kind texts, including many famous illuminated manuscripts, which students lacked the experience and knowledge to understand. And the permission to touch.
In some deep corner of my soul, I ached to see those texts. To read them. Even just to run my fingers over the bindings and be in the general proximity of such mind-boggling science, innovative theories, and wise words. But that would be foolish, considering that the two volumes I currently had hidden in my satchel were beginner level, at best.
The shelves in the student library were made of weathered wooden planks held together with iron plates and rivets. The shelves were open, making them accessible from either side of the shelf.
I peered over the top of one row of books and saw Keryth seated across from another student at a table. Her back was to me, but her voice and her long blond braid, threaded through with a green ribbon, were enough to confirm her identity.
“Don’t you find that more than a bit odd?” she whispered, leaning closer to the girl across the table over the text that lay open in front of her. “That she takes so many notes?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” The freckled brunette shoved a ringlet over one shoulder, and a newly formed memory supplied her name as Yoslyn Savva. The girl from Falkrest, whose parents disapproved of alchemy. “Amber has always taken lots of notes.”
My hand tightened around the strap of my satchel. I’d been more concerned with sneaking out of the Fundamentals-year shelves without being seen than with what they were saying, until I’d heard my name.
“Not like this,” Keryth insisted. “It’s like she doesn’t trust herself to remember a thing the professor says. She doesn’t ask questions anymore. And a week into class, she hasn’t shown up at the Mastery lab space even once. That isnotlike Amber Fallbrook. Last year she spentallher time at the lab, working on that secret project. Practically rubbing our faces in it.”
I frowned. Why would I have rubbed anyone’s face in my work?
“So, what’s your theory?” Yoslyn asked. “Do you suppose she’s ill? A barmaid in Saltstrand said there’s a malady going around town. Some strange contagion that renders the patient catatonic and alters the—”
“Does shelookcatatonic to you?” Keryth snapped.
Yoslyn shrugged, loose light brown curls bouncing with the motion. “Perhaps she has a mild case.”
“Ofcatatonia?”
My most pressing issue at the moment was neither illness nor even amnesia. It was the fact that Keryth and Yoslyn sat between me and the exit.
I swallowed a groan.
Until I managed to relearn the basics of alchemy, I would be unable to continue my research project, pass my classes, or prepare for the trials, and after days spent struggling to understand my own inscrutable notes, I’d finally decided to try the library after my afternoon snack with Wilder. The underclassmen were in class, and I’d assumed that since there were no Mastery-year courses on Friday, my peers would be ensconced in the lab space on the third floor. No one should have been around to see me perusing textbooks far below the Mastery level.
