“Cosima says things when they become impossible to avoid.”
“About my mother.”
His hand stilled on the latch of the file box.
He knew exactly which question had arrived.
“Selene Verita was in my first Ring One class,” he said.
The name sounded wrong in his voice.
My mother had been a soft voice at bedtime. Cold hands buttoning my coat. One tired dress. A silver wren hidden in a story about knowing when to fly.
Selene Verita sounded like a girl who had stood in a circle with a stave in her hand and made someone look twice.
“You taught her.”
“I tried.”
“That sounds like you don’t think you did.”
Aldric looked down at the folder.
“No,” he said. “I don’t. Not well enough, anyway.”
He opened the file box.
Inside were three folders. One tied in green thread. One in black. One in plain twine darkened by age.
He took out the oldest.
Rev finally stepped inside and closed the door behind us.
Aldric glanced at her.
“If anyone comes down this passage, you leave.”
“Obviously.”
“With Astra.”
She rolled her eyes. “You really think you have to tell me that?”
He untied the folder.
The top page was a formal report. The ink had faded at the edges, but the words in the center remained dark enough to accuse.
SELENE VERITA.
ALIGNMENT FORMAL.
REFUSAL ENTERED.
My hand found the edge of the table too late. My knees had already misunderstood their job and dropped me into a chair.
Below the refusal line, another name had been written in a smaller hand.
MAGNUS ASHFORD.
