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Nurse Verne bids us adieu with a grunt as he lumbers back to the infirmary. Something squeezes in my chest to realize he left his patients only because Orla and Ollinde were looking for me. As I watch the bluish glow of his cane recede behind the frosted glass of the infirmary doors, I’m certain those patients are safer than any of us tonight.

My stepsiblings and I descend the stairs down toward the ground floor. This is what I wanted so badly. This is why I chose Saint Nona’s onyx stone. If I’d just accepted my imprisonment in the clocktower, would any of it have happened? Would it have been worse? Destiny is impossible to parse. Would-have-beens and what-ifs. It’s useless to think too hard on it.

“We should find Van Asten,” I tell them. They both slice a glance over their shoulder in a way that makes it abundantly clear how related they are.

“No, we should find Lonan and the others,” Orla says. “It already puts me on edge being split up like this.”

I disagree, but for once, I don’t argue. “Where is this safer place?”

“We set it up a while back. It’s been warded.”

“What—you’ve been preparing for this?”

“Not this particularly,” answers Ollinde. “But something. There were the rumors that Verne so eloquently articulated. And Lonan’s always preparing for the worst.”

They’re speaking about Lonan with an intimacy I didn’t know they had. Lonan and I have our little quibbles, but I honestly didn’t think he talked to any of the rest of the cohort more than he talked to me. Something strangely akin to jealousy twinges in my chest, and I quickly bat it away.

Orla takes us down a hallway that leads to a slew of abandoned classrooms. Before I was born, before the war, Gossemort taught a spread of subjects both magical and mundane. Since the war against the Dark ignited, we have transformed solely into a school of war, and these classrooms that once taught the gentler magics have gone unused. I believe this particular hall was once the literature department, but it has since been empty and heavily rumored to be haunted. The ceilings are low—the walls are unornamented. Centuries-old doorways are short enough that we would have to crouch to enter them. Sparse gas lamps weakly illuminate our path.

“Not much farther,” Orla says as we finally reach the ground floor. “No one was likely to search down here, so we commandeered a classroom. There’s a secret passage behind—”

She stops. And, looking down the length of the hall, it is immediately evident what has halted her. A dull fog covers the floor. Gray plumes creep toward us.

“What is that?” Ollinde whispers.

Orla shakes her head, and the stiletto knife in her hand, her anchor, flares orange. “Turn back.”

Ollinde and I pivot only to find the hall behind us covered in the fog as well. I curse under my breath and ignite my scythe. The chaos will not stop—the spirits of Gossemort are hunting us. And I wonder if it’s because they can see right through me, if they can sense the Dark in my wrecked heart.

The gas lamps behind us flicker. Orla, Ollinde, and I back toward each other. And then we’re submerged in darkness. The light of my anchor only stretches a foot or so in front of me. I can hear nothing but the sound of my own breathing and the pounding in my head.

“It’s testing us,” Orla whispers.

“I’m getting fucking sick of these tests,” Ollinde says.

“Run, both of you,” I whisper. “Get as far away from here as you can.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Ollinde says. Their hands glow deep green with their anchor—an armored glove with talons as long as knives.

“You don’t understand. It wants me. Just trust me—get out of here, and you’ll be safe.”

“We’re here to protect you, idiot,” Orla snaps.

“What?”

But then Orla yelps, and in a blink, she is sucked down into the fog. There is no time to think. I lunge after her.

My hand barely clasps hers as she’s dragged across the floor at breakneck speed. The fog billows over us, obscuring everything from sight. I can barely see her face as we’re swept down the hall, banged against the stone floor. Her face is twisted in desperation as our fingers cling together. I hear stampeding behind me and look back to see not Ollinde but a great white wolf with Ollinde’s eyes snarling as it chases us. It grabs hold of the collar of my dress between its teeth and yanks.

I’m torn from Orla’s grasp, and she screams.

The wolf that is Ollinde chases her into the fog. I spring to my feet and race after them. I can’t lose them. But after a mere few seconds, I can no longer hear Orla’s screams or the sound of Ollinde’s racing paws.

I finally slow to a stop. The strange fog swirls around me, chilly against my skin. I cannot keep losing people. My hand wanders unconsciously to the timepiece below the top hem of my dress.

Bursts of light flash in the fog around me like lightning in a thundercloud. And then there are sounds—a rumble like thunder. A whisper. A quiet, impish laugh.

Haunted. The literature department is haunted.