Page 41 of Foresyth Conservatory
“Stop looking at me,” I said.
“I can’t. I mean, we have to coordinate our timing here,” he said, his eyes drifting down to Leone.
“On my count . . . now.” We both lifted at the same time, lowering the wheel another step. We repeated this twenty more times, until I was gasping for breath at the bottom of the landing. My legs were burning too. Aspen, however, didn’t have a lick of sweat on him; he simply rolled his sleeves up.
“Haven’t been down here in ages,” he said, scanning the lab. He sniffed and winced. “Ah, yes, now I remember why. Since Nina took over, no one likes to come down here.”
“You get used to it,” I replied, making my way to the lab benches with Leone.
“Not even a thank you?” Aspen called.
“I’ll thank you once you get him back up, too. It’ll be a couple of hours,” I called back, waving him off. He disappeared back up the stairs, and I exhaled in relief. I really didn’t like relying on him for anything. Maybe Nina could help me get Leone back up when she finished with her fieldwork.
“He likes you,” Leone said matter-of-factly.
“Well, that makes one of us,” I muttered, guiding Leone to the benchtop where the analyzer sat.
“Hm,” Leone hummed, finally looking up from his book and glancing at the machine. “That just looks like a brass box.”
“It is a brass box,” I replied, running my fingers over its sleek chassis. “But inside, it has a powerful light source. When we shine it through a sample, the sample absorbs different wavelengths of light. Using the photo signatures, we can determine the chemical composition and its age.” My words tumbled out quickly as I got excited.
My father had taught me chemical aging methods back in his lab where he studied the chemistry of mud tracks left at a crime scene. He could determine the age of a footprint down to the day. I wasn’t as skilled as he was, but I could tell samples apart by years, if not months.
“It’s impressive, if it can do what you say,” Leone said. “I brought these two samples as you instructed. I’m trying to determine when these two maps were drawn. Both are of the Polynesian islands, created by two scholars who claim to have discovered them first. One says he found theislands through a prophetic vision, the other through map dowsing.”
“Map dowsing?” I echoed. It sounded similar to what the girls and I had done the other night.
“Yes, using a dowsing rod or pendulum over a map to locate water, precious metals, or anything of value,” Leone explained, turning the two test tubes between his fingers. “Both scholars claim they were the first to discover the islands, but their claims predate James Cook by a hundred years. Verifying which one is true—and which method was used—could be invaluable to the field.”
Which claim is true?The words echoed in my mind as I began setting up the machine, inserting the calibration liquid into the test chamber. Aspen had said that Leone valued truth over story, which was the source of his feud with Julian. If he valued truth as much as Aspen believed, could I trust him as an ally? Or was he compromised because of his potential involvement with Julian? There was no reason why poison couldn’t have been stored anywhere in the House . . . even hidden in someone’s book.
“Have you started the test?” Leone asked, interrupting my thoughts.
“No, not yet. I have to calibrate the machine first with a pure substance—gold.” I pushed the buttons in the rhythmic pattern I’d discovered worked best for the machine. Whoever had stitched the machine together was a genius ahead of their time, but given the mismatched collection of knobs and pins, it required patience to operate.
“Can I ask you about someone? There was a student here previously,” I began, testing the waters. Leone’s expression remained neutral, fixated on the observation panel in frontof us, dials turning to indicate the calibration was in progress.
“Julian,” I said. His expression didn’t change. “I heard he died under tragic circumstances.”
“Yes, his whole case was quite tragic. A lineage acceptance who had no business being at Foresyth in the first place,” he said. I studied his reaction, but his features were relaxed, eyes steady. There was nothing to indicate guilt or remorse over the situation.
“Oh, so you two weren’t friends?” I asked, hoping my tone sounded innocuous enough not to raise suspicion. Maybe Aspen had been right—maybe there had been bad blood between them.
“We were academic counterparts. We disagreed on methodology, and our inclinations toward the truth. He favored story, and I favored facts. It was as simple as that. I told him he should stick to crafting puzzles instead of writing papers,” Leone concluded, as if that ended the conversation.
“But his death . . . it didn’t impact you?” I asked, hinting at the paper competition.
He paused, not taking his eyes off the chamber. “Come to think of it, it did eliminate him from consideration for the Advisor role,” he said. “But he was clear that he didn’t want anything to do with the Conservatory after graduation. He had some morale scruples he couldn’t get past, so becoming an Advisor wasn’t his aim.”
The machine beeped, indicating that the calibration was complete.
“Were there any topics you two were collaborating on?” I pressed, removing the calibration sample from the machine.
“Hmpf. We were working on similar papers, but mine won out among the Advisors.”
“Oh? I hadn’t heard . . .” I said absently.
“Why would you have? We found out a week before Julian died. Then my research trip to Dublin got postponed with all the chaos surrounding his death. No one knew, but it shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone that my paper won out. I don’t waste my breath on bragging.”
