Page 16 of Foresyth Conservatory
Under “Basic Expectations,” I read that students were expected to spend eight to ten hours a day conducting independent studies. Then, I flipped to my weekly schedule and noted that I had meetings with the Meister twice a week—one for mentorship and another to discuss the assistantship project outside my research, which I assumed was a front for discussing the progress of my investigation.
Curious, I skimmed the graduation requirements at the back of the pamphlet. I wasn’t planning on staying that long, but it was worth knowing what I’d be expected to work toward.
Publishing was mandatory by the end of the year to earn credits. I wondered if the Meister actually expected me to publish in addition to solving the Conservatory’s murder; that hadn’t been part of our agreement, as far as I knew. Most students, the handbook explained, were expected to publish at least one paper annually, with many leaving theConservatory having authored a dozen scholarly articles. It described this as “structured intellectual liberation.”
Interestingly, there was no mention of practicing magick, save for one line on something called an “Initiation” which had the most cult-like connotation out of the whole handbook: “Initiation begins when the student has shown both a commitment to academic excellence as well as magickal aptitude.” The former would be easy enough, but the latter made me pause. Hopefully I’d long finish my investigation before being subjected to this milestone.
The yearly requirements concluded with a Foresyth-hosted Spring Symposium, where each student was to present an exhibit of their intellectual work from the year. I swallowed, considering I had joined in the middle of their academic year, I would only have three months to prepare for the Symposium.If you get that far,doubt retorted.
As I sifted through these materials, I realized that the students here had all the time and resources in the world to pursue excellence in their chosen subjects. Although some topics were strange or macabre, it was clear they were all incredibly gifted. Hadn’t I always dreamed of attending an institution like this, surrounded by peers who shared my drive and fascination with . . . unique topics? Excitement welled in my chest, but I quickly tamped it down. This was not Sawyer Academy. And I was not a scholar.
This was Foresyth and it was dangerous, as my mother and Gabriel warned. I’d need to use every skill my father had passed down to me if I wanted to solve this murder and leave Foresyth alive. All four students had the opportunity to kill Julian within these close quarters, but the question remained:why?What would motivate them to commit such a heinous crime and kill a fellow student?
That night the students settled around the table just after six, taking the same places they had in the morning. Richard, the steward, brought in dinner, piping hot from the kitchen, and served it family-style on large ivory plates. Given this manner of dining, I let out a quiet sigh of relief, knowing that poison was unlikely to be on the menu tonight.
I stole a glance at Aspen. His hair was brushed back, and he was wearing an evening jacket in lieu of his morning sports coat. It was well-tailored to his form, accentuating his imposing height and stature. A bud of lilac peeked out from his breast pocket, twinning the color of Sequoia’s dress.
“Will the Meister be joining us?” I inquired over the steaming plates set before us. My mouth was watering, but I feigned courtesy before filling my plate.
“No, afraid not. He rarely does. He’s got clients to attend to,” Sequoia answered.
“Clients?”
“Yes, the ones he advises,” she said slowly.
“Of course,” I replied. I vaguely remembered the term from my earlier reading of the handbook.
“She doesn’t know,” Aspen said matter-of-factly. “The most prestigious position after graduating Foresyth is to become an Advisor. Holding the most powerful people in the palm of your hand, setting them on a course that runs the world. Foresyth has a long history of advising the world’s most influential people.”
That had certainly not been in the handbook.
“You don’t really think that bloated bloke, Taft, secured the election himself did you? It wasn’t just Teddy’s involvement that won him the bid,” Aspen continued witha knowing arch of his brow. “Why be the person in power, when you can be the one whocontrolsthose in power.”
I furrowed my brows at the implication that Foresyth’s advisors influenced American elections.
“Not everyone is as power-hungry as you, Aspen. Some people are here for the erudition. Maybe that’s what Dahlia is looking for,” Nina offered with a smile.
I was glad to have her as an ally, but I wasn’t keen on the division forming against Aspen. At least, not yet.
“I’m here for both,” I said, taking a sip from my wine glass. Aspen’s mouth twitched to the side, appeased. He didn’t know that I hadn’t taken the truth serum this morning. At least, not fully.
“You might find this hard to believe, Nina dear, but I’m actually here for theart. And what better way than to treat your whole life as a piece of art, crafting each day with a brushstroke?” Aspen’s twinkling eyes caught mine.
Sequoia cleared her throat and interjected, “So, how was your first day at Foresyth?” She was wearing that same warm grin from the morning, a silvery shawl draped across her shoulders. I noted that she squeezed Aspen’s hand as she looked at me.
“Delightful. I’m just getting acquainted with my surroundings,” I said, digging into the mashed potatoes, wafting off steam. I hadn’t had this much food in front of me in years—at least not since my father died. My mother barely ate anything during her illness, and I lost count of the hours spent tending the bookstore, and rarely made time for multiple meals a day. It was like all the pent-up hunger was finally being unleashed.
“Nina said you saw the library. Isn’t the collection here marvelous? It’s one of the largest archives in the States, I’ve been told. Can you imagine being in the epicenter of such knowledge?”
“It’s very impressive. My father owned a bookstore, but it was nothing like the collection here.”
“A bookstore? Aspen, Dalia’s father owned a bookstore, how quaint.” She squeezed Aspen’s hand again.
“Why would he think that’s impressive? It’s not an oil empire the likes of Titus Barlowe’s,” Nina chimed.
“I have interests outside of my father’s,” Aspen cut in with a sharp tone. Nina must have struck a chord with him. Father wound,noted.
“And I’m keenly fascinated by everything about the newest addition to our class,” Aspen said with a smile, turning toward me. “Now tell us again—you’re a Tarot reader? What got you into that line of work?”
