Page 87 of Suspicions on the Stage
“If you require any further information, please direct it through Reginald. Otherwise, I expect we are finished here.”
The abruptness should leave me angry, but instead I feel strangely deflated, like I’ve just been let out of a holding cell after a brief, instructive stay.
“I understand. Thank you for your time,” I say, because what else is there to say?
The line goes dead.
I stare at the receiver, then at my bourbon, which now seems insufficiently strong for the job ahead. For a moment, I consider calling Iggy, or Lucas, or anyone who has ever understood how power tastes: metallic, astringent, and always a little bit bitter.
Instead, I buzz Channing.
“That was quick,” she says, poking her head in.
“She’s sending a legal team,” I say. “And probably a hit squad, for good measure.”
Channing raises an eyebrow, then glances at the bottle. “I’ll get another glass.”
I nod, unable to shake the chill of Regina’s last words: ‘Sacrifice is required for the advancement of the institution.’
Somewhere, Rialto’s ghost is nodding along, and so am I.
takin’ care of business
LIAM
The wind tastes like burnt espresso and heavy perfume, which is how I know we’re crossing the quad even before the bell tower chimes its late-morning song. Kaspar’s boots grind old rock salt into the walkway, every step telegraphing mild irritation. If I let myself focus, I can count the precise number of chewed-up sidewalk squares before he says, “Are we really doing this?”
He’s not asking if we’re walking—he means the other thing. The thing in my left jacket pocket, folded between a letter from the Bursar’s office and the checkbook monogrammed in gold foil. I ignore him in favor of watching the drowsy row of State U undergrads smoke vapes and shuffle toward whatever Gen Ed class is getting ready to begin.
“It’s the only way Slade’s ever going to finish his degree without fear,” I say. I roll my tongue over the word ‘degree’ the same way he rolls his eyes—long-suffering, but not without affection.
“The kid is gonna be pissed,” Kaspar says, keeping pace. He’s already mapped out the route: three blocks up, two left, under the cement arch plastered with flyers for student governmentand improv troupes. He points at a rainbow-y ‘Acoustic Open Mic’ poster. “You want me to look into this? Could be a good opportunity to bring in outsiders to see him.”
My old friend pretends he doesn’t give a shit about anyone but me, but the real Kaspar is showing through.
“In time,” I say. “He should be composing, not scraping cups in the library coffeehouse for tips and measly wages. Once he’s had some time to focus, we can use our influence to bring guests to the campus to observe.”
“Your father would be horrified by your largesse, Your Highness.”
Kaspar is the only one who calls me that who actuallyknowsme, and only when he’s in a mood. His moods are many: all blues, grays, sometimes a flash of burnt ochre, and occasionally, when Morgana’s name comes up, pink edges that bleed inwards and make him uncharacteristically silent.
He’s taken with her, but his healing has been very slow, even after the demoness’ admission about Angeline.
The dragon pushes through the glass doors of Admissions, head ducked to avoid the sign dangling from the frame. The lobby is a sea of plexiglass and nervous mothers. I don’t mean to, but I scan for the one with the sharpest eyes, in case anyone is shadowing us. We cannot afford anymore drama right now.
The woman at the front desk smiles at me like I’m the setup to a punchline she’s been waiting to tell all week.
“I’m here to discuss a tuition matter,” I say, projecting my innate charm. My father taught me that—if you can’t win by force, use every other asset at your disposal. My looks and my Fae featuresoften win battles before they start because of that tidbit. It’s not what he meant, certainly, but I’ve made the advice my own over the years. “It’s regarding Slade Finn.”
She types the name and slides a clipboard through the gap. “Slade Ezra Finn, graduate student in music?”
“Precisely,” I say. “We’re part of his, ah, extended family.”
Kaspar doesn’t correct me; he wouldn’t, not in public. But he lingers a little behind my right shoulder, scanning the other parents and the stressed-out kid waiting for his turn at the counter. The actual paperwork takes five minutes, but the internal theater takes at least thirty. The woman is scandalized by the sum, then sheepish when I hand over a check. Kaspar interrupts only once, to ask if the payments can be completely anonymous, or if it’ll show up in Slade’s portal.
Good on him for remembering that bit; this isn’t something I usually handle for my own classes.
“We can keep the donor’s identity private,” she says, and stamps the form with surprising force.
