She may have lost faith in herself, but High Sage Triche has gained it. If he thinks she’s good enough to be here, then it must be true. And if she’s good enough for Cygnus, she’s smart enough to survive it. She’s supposed to be here. She was always supposed to be here. She’s clever, cunning, and creative enough to find the solution to escape from the sword hanging over her head.
She still doesn’t know how or why or by what miracle it will happen, but for the first time in weeks, she lets in a little spark of hope.
Turning the corner, she reaches Cassius’s door. It’s locked, but she uses the same celestial spell from the chapel to get it open: Pyxis, Reticulum. She’s grown used to the sensation of pricking her finger and drawing in blood. She barely feels it anymore.
The handle clicks, and she slips through the small crack in the door, closing it softly behind her. The room is empty, but it smells like him. It’s so warm and calm and perfect. There are several open books spread out over the desk, on top of the bed, some on the floor. In a thin vase, there is a single white flower, so fresh and alive. She picks up a blue tie draped over his desk chair and brings it to her nose.
The memories they created here come crashing down, and it nearly brings Claudia to her knees. All those arguments, all that hate which all the while was masking something much more powerful. She remembers every lingering stare, every touch, every kiss. Falling into his chair, she clutches the tie at her chest and chokes out a cry. She can’t believe she’s going to lose this.
She pulls herself together as much as she can and rifles through his drawers until she comes to the one that’s locked. The one she needs the most. Her thumb is still tender from the wound she used to open the door. With the same spell, she tries to unlock the drawer, but it doesn’t work. Again, she casts it, and she’s met with the same result. Is she doing it wrong? No, she knows this spell better than any. She can write it with the same mindless ease with which she signs her name. She just used it to open the door to this room. There is no way she’s doing it incorrectly.
But Cassius has locked this with his own magic. He had said something in Latin to open it before. What was it? It must’ve been linguistic magic. Of course he would already know how to cast, despite being a first-year. Claudia is going to have to figure it out now.
Odette wrote in her diary that any linguistic spells had to be ambiguous. She needs a Latin word or phrase with a double meaning: one meaning “unlock,” the other something different.
“Recludo?”
Doesn’t work.
“Re… sero?”
This also doesn’t work. She doesn’t know enough Latin to do this with ease. The only reason she knows any at all is because Cassius once checked out a book in Latin from the Caedleian, and there were no English translations, so Claudia, painstakingly, did it herself, albeit poorly. Focusing intently, she remembers that Cassius’s spell didn’t start with anR. Dammit, what was it? Something that means “unlock,” something that means “open,” something that—
“Star Girl,” Cassius calls from the doorway, “what are you doing in my room?”
MADNESS
Let me be clever, not mad.
Bright without burning.
Let my mind be ironclad,
And forever learning.
The Witch’s Prayer
His voice is strange—darker, rougher, and sounds farther away than it actually is. He approaches, and the candles pulse in the rhythm of his steps. He’s not wearing his robes, nor a shirt or shoes. Nothing more than tight black trousers, and that obsidian pendant arrowing down his chest.
There is blood on his hands.
“Nothing,” Claudia says, stiffening.
“How did you get in?” He looms over her, flames dancing in his dark blue eyes.
“You must’ve left it unlocked.”
Bracing his hands on either side of the desk, he cages Claudia with his arms. “Liar.”
Something is wrong with him. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave.” She ducks beneath his arm to escape, but he catches her and pulls her close. His touch is cold.
“You’re not going anywhere.” As his fingers curl tightly around her waist and pinch her skin, there’s a strange hum in the air. It sounds like the grimoire. This close, Cassius doesn’t even look like himself. His features are too sharp. His warmth is all gone.
“Cassius,” she says firmly, “what happened at the ritual?”
The corners of his mouth fall. “I found out the truth about you.”
“What does that mean?”
