“I don’t relish the thought,” he admitted. “But if the alternative was to risk injuringyou? I would not hesitate.”
A complicated mixture of emotion exploded within me. An affectionate warmth, tinged with a thread of horror.
“But we don’t have that option,” he continued, gently squeezing my hand. “And I’m not convinced that the possibility of recovering your memory is worth the risk of an adverse result.”
I pulled my hand from his grip. “I appreciate your caution. But that is my decision to make.” And he showed no such caution when he tested his elixirs on himself. “Will you help me?”
Wilder scrubbed his hands over his face, blond hair falling over his fingers with the frustrated gesture. Finally he looked up at me. “Of course. But only because I’m afraid that if I don’t, you’ll try it on your own, despite the fact that you’ve recovered very little of your skill in the lab.”
“How well you know me,” I murmured.
He rose and laid his hand on my shoulder. “You go ahead. Set up your station and get started with the Fundamentals-year exercises. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“What if someone else comes in?”
Wilder looked amused and a little sad; yet again, his expression left me feeling naive, as if I were missing something that should have been patently obvious. “No one else will be studying, Amber. It’s Saturday night. Our entire cohort will be at the Dusty Beaker within the hour.”
“Have I been there?” I asked as a now-familiar discomfort anchored me to the stone floor, like weights sewn into my skirt. “At the Beaker?”
An alehouse just past the bridge in Saltstrand, I had gathered from overheard conversations. A place where students hung out on the weekends. Professors, reportedly, withdrew to a room in the back, where they could unwind out of sight of their pupils.
Wilder’s smile loosened. “You were never a regular, but you’ve certainly been there.Everyone’sbeen there.” His brows dipped as he studied me. “Would you rather meet me there tonight? There’s no edict declaring that you must studyeverynight.”
I laughed, but the sound felt bitter, even to my own ears. “Alas, I have no time to waste with ale and revelry. Though Iwillbe brewing some of Yoslyn’s tea tonight. And I took extra pastries from the Refectory at the noon meal, just for this occasion.”
“That sounds nice,” he said as he headed toward the door, and he genuinely seemed to mean it. “Try not to blow yourself up before I get there.”
My lab station looked perfect, as far as I could tell. What I’d considered an art, when I watched Wilder do it, now seemed more of a science, and I was nothing if not eager to apply logic to any new scenario.
Within half an hour of arriving, I had, carefully following the directions, set up three different experiments, burners waiting unlit under various beakers, receiving vessels positioned beneath the open ends of condenser tubes. I’d organized pipettes by size and divided my selection between the three experiments. My parchment lay ready, alongside quills and a full inkwell.
I was standing at the back of the room, making a list of materials as I perused a selection of powdered substances of various bright and intriguing colors, stored in jars above a selection of mortars and pestles, when the shuffle of feet against the stone floor at my back made me smile.
“Took you long enough,” I said without turning.
A male voice scoffed, amused. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you understand what you’re doing.”
I froze.
That was not Wilder’s voice.
“And yet…I do know better.”
I turned slowly, scrambling for a response, to find Pryce Wishart standing on the other side of my lab station, his chin stubble having grown into an actual beard this late in the evening. His hands rested on the table, as if he’d just surveyed the landscape and found it unexpectedly serviceable. But he wasn’t looking at the table.
His muddy tea–colored gaze was squarely focused on me.
“I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean,” I finally said, hoping my tone discouraged further discussion rather than demanded an explanation.
“I do believe there are many things you genuinely don’t understand at this moment.” He held my gaze with a boldness that made me uncomfortable. “Butthatis not among them.”
I noted the skeptical arch of his brow, the tight line of his jaw, and a smile that looked genuine. He wasn’t happy, in the traditional sense. He was invigorated by the circumstance. By the effort that had clearly led him here at this specific moment.
“You were listening yesterday,” I said, careful not to phrase it as a question.
His smile did not so much as flicker. “Most assuredly.”
“You had no right.” I took a deep breath, but there was little I could do about the gooseflesh rising on my arms, despite the warmth in the room from the athanor in one corner. “That was a private conversation.”
