Page 119 of The Witch They Fear

I know it’s insane. I know it’s risky–to call him out like this. But what else can I do? I can’t shake him, I can’t ignore what I heard any longer.

If he’s some kind of spy or enemy that I’m unaware of, I want to know it.

Something moves behind his eyes—not much, the smallest recalibration, like he’s remembering that conversation and trying to figure out how much he should and shouldn’t say.

I roll my neck. The morning sun heats up my cheeks as we walk across the pavement.

"You're a council oversight case," he says finally, even and unhurried, like he's reading me my own file. "Some people ask how you're getting on. Some people answer them. I'm the second kind. That's the whole of it."

"You didn't sound like you were reporting to the council."

For half a second he actually looks at me—not the professional sweep, a real look, gone almost before I catch it. Then it seals over, and he slows where the path narrows toward the cottage, hanging back far enough to let me walk the last of it myself. "Get some breakfast, Miss Dellaby," he says. "Tell Miss Marchand the couch was adequate."

Then he turns and uses his vamp speed to sprint off before I can even blink.

I stand there for a second, looking at the place Corvin just stood before walking up to the porch of the cottage.

A month in, and I'd foolishly let this place, my reality here become comfortable. Careless. He’s my council appointed enforcer–here to ensure that I don’t run. To be eyes and ears for those who want me to succeed–or, possibly, fail. I’m not sure when I stopped being vigilant, but that will stop now.

He's not here to protect me, he’s not my friend. He's here in case I need to be stopped—and maybe not only for the people I think. She's not suspicious, he told whoever was on that call, but why would the council be wondering if I was acting suspicious?

I'd started to feel safe. That was the mistake—not that I felt it, but that I stopped checking whether it was true. And not-checking is exactly the thing that gets the gentle parts of you killed.

I stay on the porch for a second longer, looking back to make sure Corvin hasn’t come back. Zeva is probably next door, taking today’s shift today. Can I trust her?

Can I trust anyone on this campus?

But then I feel myself frowning–shocked that that thought would even cross my mind.

Of course, I can.

I have Nellie.

∞∞∞

Room 204 smells like chalk and old paper and a roomful of people who'd rather be asleep. After spending all morning wondering who my allies are, boring is the best thing that could happen to me.

Nellie's saved my seat with her bag and a glare to anyone who even thought about stealing it. I drop in beside her and ease my bag off the bad shoulder—better now; the sling's gone as of this morning, which she celebrated like a personal holiday. The bandage on my neck still pulls if I turn my head too fast, so I turn it slow.

Up front, Professor Malloy paces the demonstration area with a stub of chalk and hardly any notes, laying down a diagram one hard stroke at a time. "—which is why a binding is only ever as good as the will that sets it," she's saying. "You can cut the cleanest sigil on the Gulf Coast and it will still come apart if your intent wavers halfway through. Magic does not care how badly you want control." She underlines a word hard enough to break the chalk, and keeps moving. "It answers to whether you have it."

I take notes–writing down anything that I might be useful later. The scratch of the pen, Nellie's knee going like a sewing machine beside me, the dry tap of Professor’s Malloy's chalk—and for the first time since Corvin blurred off down the path, the thing behind my sternum unclenches a notch. Nobody in here wants anything from me… well unless I count Leopold who wants me to be his.

I don’t want to think about him.

For fifty minutes I'm just a student who's behind on the reading.

Halfway through class, a folded square of paper lands on my notebook. It's come a ways—soft at the folds, handed down the row—and when I glance over, three seats down, Emric Vane has his eyes nailed to the board and the tips of his ears gone red.

Subtle.

I swallow back a smile and open it in my lap.

Sorry I disappeared. My father flew the whole house in for the unveiling and required a full weekend of me being a credit to the Vane name. I survived. Mostly. And under that, smaller, written and half scratched out: Missed your face in here. Pretend I didn't say that.

My heart flutters quietly in my chest.

He offered me beignets weeks ago, and then neither of us did a single thing about it, the way you don't when wanting a thing is scarier than going without. I really have been a coward about a damn pastry. I fold the note small and pocket it and don't write back, because I have a better idea, and because Malloy's gaze is doing its slow sweep of the room and I don’t want to get on her bad side.