Page 86 of The Witch They Crave

“What time is it?”

“Three,” Aamon answers.

“What do you think Leopold is up to?”

Aamon shakes his head, then pulls me back down and tucks me against his chest. “Go back to bed. I’ll wake you if anything changes.”

I blink, my eyelids still heavy and my body weighing a thousand pounds. He’s right.

I don’t want this night ruined by Leopold Vassard. Or whatever nefarious shit he’s up to.

Chapter 20

Something is wrong with the house.

I feel it the second I come in from class—a change in the air, a wrongness behind my eyes, the pressure-drop before weather.

I stayed late in the library because I couldn't concentrate, and I couldn't concentrate because Kage never showed to combat class. His spot on the field sat empty the whole session, no explanation, and after, I waited by the equipment shed like an idiot until the light went, telling myself he'd been sent on one of Midus's errands and he'd turn up.

He didn't.

I told myself it was nothing but it didn’t stop the stupid feelings bubbling up in my throat as I accepted defeat and left our usual spot.

But now I’m home and this place feels… off too.

The evening staff aren't at their posts. No one by the doors, the stairs, the ends of the halls. Every other night there's a body at each of those spots. Tonight there's nobody. Just two in the front hall, polishing silver that doesn't need it, heads down, not looking at me.

The not-looking, I'm used to. The empty posts make the hair on my arms stand up.

Somebody sent them away. You don't clear a house by accident.

Aamon's gone. I know that much—it's a dispensary night, one of the few times he excuses himself to take care of his… dietary needs, and he told me this morning he'd be out past midnight. So it's me and Leopold and a skeleton staff, in a house built to hold a small army.

"Calypso, darling." Leopold's voice drifts out from the dining room, warm as anything. "Come to dinner. You've kept me waiting."

I roll my eyes at the wall. Darling. He only trots that one out when he's performing for an audience, and there's no audience tonight, which means the audience is me. I go anyway. Refusing dinner would be its own kind of tell. I drop my bag on the chair beside my usual one, and sit.

The table's set for two. Candles, the good silver, a bottle of something red he's already poured. He's at the head, uniform jacket still on, and whatever emptied the halls hasn't effected him at all. If anything he looks lighter than usual—the wound-tight watchfulness he's worn since the vault gone slack, replaced by something almost peaceful. It should be a relief to see–a pleasant-faced Leopold. It isn't. He’s too much of a wildcard.

"You look tired," he says.

"I've been studying."

"Have you." He turns his glass by the stem, watching the wine climb the sides. It is wine this time, I can tell by the thickness of the stain. "Late in the library. Alone."

"That's usually how studying works."

His mouth curves, and he lets it go, and we eat. Or he watches me eat and moves food around his own plate, the way he does, cutting it into pieces that never reach his mouth. At least this time he has a plate in front of him instead of staring at me the whole time.

The quiet stretches. It isn't the comfortable kind. Every so often he surfaces from wherever he's gone behind his eyes and looks at me down the length of the table with an expression I can't read.

"Are you keeping up?" he asks. "With the coursework."

"Well enough."

"Mm. It's a great deal to ask of a first-year. Most of your cohort had a proper foundation—primary school, coven tutelage, the ordinary scaffolding." He turns his glass. "You had a cell and a chemical drip. It's remarkable you can read a warding diagram at all, when you think about it. I do hope the others aren't leaving you behind."

I keep my fork moving and try not to let my face react to the slight diss. "I manage."