The disconnect leaves Grayson navigating several layers of an unfamiliar culture.
That brings him to the other reason he hates these fifty-minute sessions: Dahlia Kirwan, Professor of Time at the Nashville Guild. The only wielder of a Time Affinity in all of the southern United States.
Enthusiastic, intense, and perceptive, there is something about Dahlia Kirwan that rubs Grayson the wrong way, no doubt about it.
“You’re late again, Grayson.”
He realizes the doorway to her office is open. He’d been so caught up in his dread that he’d been standing, hand poised to knock, for a few minutes—and that she’d finally grown tired of the delay.
Forceful in nature but not in stature, the small woman standing before him barely stands five feet tall, but what she lacks in height she makes up for in aura. In her mid- to late-forties, she has pointed features, with a sharp nose, close-set black eyes, and a pursed mouth, which lend her a bird-like expression.
“Sorry, Professor Kirwan.” The urge to explain why he’s been dawdling is a strong one, but he shakes it off, biting his tongue.
“Is that all you have to say for yourself?” she asks, her eyes narrowed in question.
“Yes, Professor.”
She heaves a disappointed sigh, pursing her lips before closing the door.
“Now we only have forty-three minutes for our session. Shall we begin where we left off last time?”
Grayson drops his jacket and bag on the chair in front of her messy desk, used to the lack of niceties that he experiences in his other classes.
Flitting over to the table by the window, she gestures for him to take a seat across from her. In the center of the table is a flat board with colored bulbs—ten rows of bulbs in every color of the rainbow, in different configurations. No rhyme or reason, just a completely random arrangement every time he meets with her.
Grayson sees this board in his nightmares.
“Sit, please. We shall begin. You recall what you need to do?” she asks, in a tone designed for a child student, not a grown man.
It makes his wolf bristle, causing The Plain to buck and twist in his hold. He responds with his own tone, tinged with disrespect.
“Yes, I will try to tell you what the configuration will be before you press the button.”
“Exactly. This should be well within your capabilities.”
It should be—if her belief in his most basic Time Talent is to be believed—but it won’t be, not as long as Grayson has walled off his connection to The Plain.
About a month ago, while speaking with his Fire instructor about historical battle styles, he caught a glimpse of Dahlia speaking with the headmaster. He’d had a flash of this exact test. He’d seen her shock and smug expression as he’d managed ten in a row of eight-light sequences. He hadn’t needed precognition to know he’d be on a plane in the next twenty-four hours.
After a long conversation with Jay and Ignatius—and with Leo holding Gideon back from causing a federal incident—they decided there was only one way to make sure this went his way.
He needed to fake it.
Two bulbs here. One bulb in a three-light sequence there. Enough to warrant Ignatius’ official evaluation as a mild Time Talent, but not enough to draw any real attention. Nothing to warrant a long-haul flight or a life-long sentence as a government lackey.
She doesn’t wait for him to settle in. “Begin.”
Sequence after sequence, Grayson “fails” to predict the sequence accurately, resulting in his tutor becoming more and more frustrated.
After ten attempts, her jaw is set, her patchouli scent singed with anger. “Grayson. This is a particularly dismal performance. You must draw harder on your connection. Do you have the foci I gave you?”
When he looks up, her expression has shifted—not softer, but edged with a strange, hungry curiosity, as if she’s measuring how far she can push him.
The small brass crow ornament is in the pocket of his bag. Its steady gaze is similar to Dahlia Kirwan’s—a gift from his instructor to help him focus his access to The Plain. Something he most assuredly doesn’t need.
“It’s in my bag. I didn’t want to carry it,” he says with unexpected honesty. “Sorry, that sounded rude. It’s just so pretty, I uh… didn’t want to lose it.”
She frowns. “It isn’t doing us any good there. Fetch it, please.”
