Page 69 of Foresyth Conservatory
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said, stepping closer.
“I don’t think you want to know.”
“There’s nothing more Iwantto know.”
I paused for a moment but finally yielded. “I’m thinking about how you’d go about stuffing me into that kiln,” I said. The truth felt good on my tongue, even if it was only a half-joke.
He let out a roar of laughter. “I’m not stuffing you anywhere. Besides, it would ruin the kiln. Why do you think I’m so protective of it? I’ve never shown this place to anyone else.”
A knot was starting to form in my stomach.Not even Sequoia?I didn’t like thinking about the Trees keeping secrets from each other. And even more so them telling me a secret but not one another. And though I was still angry at Sequoia for keeping the cards a secret, there was still a part of me that didn’t want to betray her friendship. Even if it sprouted from a bed of lies.
“You’re a glassblower,” I said, tracing my fingertips over the torch equipment.
“Mhm,” he said, his eyes not falling from me.
“Interesting. I pegged you as more of the metal-working, Hephaestus type,” I said in the most mocking tone I could muster. He was so far from Hephaestus it was painful.
“Ouch,” he said, coming around the table next to me. “I started with metal. But the temperatures were too low—my sculptures were melting before they had a chance to solidify. As my magick grew stronger, I needed a medium that could handle it. Turns out glass can handle all two-thousand degrees of it,” he said.
I scrunched my nose at him. “An interesting way of saying you’re too hot to handle.”
He laughed again, and I wished I could bottle up that noise and keep it with me. It was deep and true. I hadn’t heard anyone laugh like that since my father was alive.
“I’m sure you can handle me,” he said, smirking.
I ignored his flirtation, remembering the true reason I was down here. I needed answers, and the time was now. I had come this far; I needed to use his vulnerability.Weaponizeit.
“Aspen.” His name caught in my throat. I turned hesitantly to look at him, and he met my eyes. “Earlier, when you said you wanted me here. Why?” His motives were confusing, and his actions contradictory. He suspected I was investigating Julian’s death, and yet he wasn’t stopping me. His actions might even be aligned withhelpingme.
“Despite what you might think, I want you to figure out what happened to Julian. I don’t believe for a second that he killed himself.”
I met his steely gaze, encouraging him to go on.
“Julian isn’t—wasn’t—the melancholy type. He was jovial, brought a fresh perspective into the House. Something else must have happened the night of the ceremony; he was known for speaking out against the Meister’s philosophies.”
“What do you remember about that night?” I said, edging him on.
Aspen hesitated, the weight of his next words pulling the air tight around us. The ash was collecting in my throat. He finally drew in a long, deliberate breath. “We all had taken the elixir,” he said quietly, his voice almost a confession. “The one Sequoia and Nina prepared . . . for soul flight. We all drank it.” His gaze flickered to mine, searching for something—understanding, maybe. Or absolution.
“Dahlia . . .” His voice softened as he reached out, his fingers barely brushing my arm. The touch was light, but it sent a jolt through me, setting every nerve on edge. “I know you have every reason to doubt me. But I need you to believe this.” His stare was molten. “I want to know what happened to Julian as much as you do. He was my friend . . .” His voice cracked, the words trailing off like the admission cost him something.
“And I think you’re the only one who can figure it out,” he whispered, the gleam from his eyes hardening. I could feel my eyebrows twitch into a furrow and I countered the movement, willing them to relax. How could he believe in me so fervently when I scarcely believed in myself?
We stood there for a moment, watching each other in silence. I wrestled with his words, not wanting to accept them, yet finding myself sinking into their weight. Finally, he spoke again, his voice quieter. “There’s something else I need to show you.”
He moved past me toward a pedestal draped in a linen sheet and, with a single graceful motion, unveiled it. What lay beneath took my breath away. It was the most beautiful sculpture I’d ever seen, even though I couldn’t fully understand what it was. Entirely made of glass, it resembled a vase, yet appeared more like a puzzle—endlessly shifting, without a fixed form, beginning, or edge. The glass spiraled in continuous loops of deep Prussian blue, a color that felt strangely familiar. Just when I thought I could grasp its pattern, it morphed again, slipping away from my mind’s eye.
“It’s devastatingly beautiful.”
“Yes, you are,” he said.
I rolled my eyes and turned back to the sculpture. Staring at it was both unsettling and mesmerizing. The sensation felt oddly familiar . . . Then, it hit me. It was the same feeling I had while holdingThe Book of Skorn.
“It’s forged with Skorn magick. Out of curiosity, can you guess which cards?”
I considered the object in front of me. Perhaps this was as close as I could get to reading Aspen.
“The Wheel of Fortune, of course. Representing the circularity, infinity. The Two of Swords. Duality, choice. Explains how I’m repulsed and entranced at the same time. And perhaps the Queen of Cups. The flow of water, emotions, ever fluid.”
