Page 70 of Foresyth Conservatory
He studied me for a moment before replying. “Pretty good. But two are missing. There’s a heavy pinch of the Seven of Cups, and a tad bit of the Devil in there, too.”
“Ah, Satan’s tricks. How could I have missed it?” I teased, eyeing him.
“A satyr that gets too much vitriol, if you ask me.”
We both caught ourselves chuckling. He stared at me, his mouth still spread into a brilliant smile.A crack.This was the time in a reading when I’d push harder.
“Can I ask you something else?” I edged closer, sensing I was getting warmer, but I hadn’t reached the heart of it yet. I had seen the fractures between the students, but now I was nearing something even darker—the cracks between them and Foresyth itself. The students didn’t follow the Meister’s decrees, at least not always. Sequoia hadn’t. Maybe Julian’s death was just one symptom of a deeper, festering wound, poisoning them all.
“Do you ever question this place? What it offers you?”
His smile faded, and he paused for a long time before replying. “There’s a lot about Foresyth I don’t agree with—most of us don’t,” he said quietly, as though afraid someone might overhear, even though we were far from anyone else in the House. “I thought I could change it from the inside, given that I couldn’t escape it.”
“What do you mean?”
“For one reason or another, we’re bound to it. We’re powerless.”
The idea that Aspen was powerless was absurd. He had so much influence in Circle it was almost sickening. “Powerless? How?” I whispered, half expecting him to brush off the question. But he met my stare, the lines around his eyes tightening as if the truth caused him physical pain.
“The Meister has a very particular way of choosing us. He picks us, not just for our merits or lineage, but our family’s debts.” Aspen paused, his voice quieter.
I scrunched my features together, waiting for him to continue.
“My father, Titus, he didn’t just amass his fortune from his cunning or luck.” His eyes fell downward, back toward the tool bench. “He has been using the Advisors for years. And the price for that type of service isn’t just money—it’sus.” Aspen looked up then, and I almost staggered back by the severity of his expression. “Sequoia too, her mother didn’t earn her fame in the theatre just from talent, the Advisors had a hand in that, too.”
My breath caught. The focus on lineage at Foresyth—it wasn’t just an elitist prejudice, it was practical. Their parents had traded success for their children’s future.
“That’s cruel. You and Sequoia aren’t at fault for the decisions your parents made,” I said.
“Though that might be true, we all still answer to our parent’s misdoings, one way or another,” he said. “But don’t misunderstand me: regardless of the debt, I want to be here. So does Sequoia. We’re all scholars at heart, by birth or otherwise.” My heart sank at the mention of her name. Was the warm, spiraling sensation in my chest . . . jealousy?
He looked toward the kiln, the light from the flames reflected in his eyes, yet he didn’t flinch from the brightness like I had. “My father has exceedingly high expectations, and I admit that I sometimes put those on others. But it doesn’t mean I don’t question my own abilities.”
“Everyone does. Especially those with the best of them.” I paused, recalling the first conversation I had with Aspen in the breakfast room. “When you said you were here for the art, I doubted you. But now I see you were telling the truth. Your sculptures really are magnificent.” My cheeks flushed at the admittance.
“Thank you,” Aspen replied with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
I looked away, my eyes traced the curves of the glass in front of me. “So this is your research work—what you’ll be presenting to the Council at the Symposium. This is your magick,” I said, rounding the pedestal to get another view from the other side. I couldn’t imagine how these slight curves and features could have ever been forged by hand. The piece seemed as if it was assembled by magick. Something this extraordinary belonged in a museum, not buried in a tunnel like this.
He stepped closer, stopping just in front of the sculpture, and I felt the hairs on my arms rise. “Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice low, his eyes emanating their own source of heat.
My thoughts spun. I had been conditioned to trust no one, to be an impartial seeker of the truth. Of course I didn’t trust him—I wasn’t supposed to trust anyone. But despite that, my body betrayed me, instinctively drawn toward his presence, defying the logic of my mind.
“I don’t know yet,” I said.
“Then maybe this will convince you,” Aspen said. And before I could react, his hand had swiped the glass sculpture to the floor. It fell so fast that I heard the crash in my ears seconds after seeing the pieces at my feet.
“What the hell—” I choked, my voice catching in my throat as I stared at the shattered remains at my feet. My heart pounded in my chest, the horror of what he’d done sinking in.
“Why did you do that?” I whispered, unable to tear my eyes away from the wreckage.
But before the shock could fully register, something else stirred inside me—a sudden, unexplainable heat. It unfurled slowly, spreading through my core like molten fire, each wave stronger, more consuming. I gasped, my breath hitching as the warmth surged lower, flooding my body with an intensity that made me rock and tremble.
I wanted to recoil, to scream, but I couldn’t. Every part of me felt pulled towards Aspen and his devilish grin. Were those specks of amber in his eyes? It felt like we were tethered by some force far beyond reason. What had he done to me?
“You wanted to see something real. You wanted to know that I hadn’t been using the cards on you.” A dark undercurrent grew in his voice as he spoke, stepping closer to me. I winced as his feet crunched on the glass below. “Well, Dahlia. There’s only one way to convince you of anything, and that’s to show you.”
My hands instinctively went up to his chest, as if commanded by an external force. The feeling I had from looking at the sculpture was now how it felt to watch him, his eyes narrow and serpentine, rounding every curvature of my cheek and flesh. The green in his eyes flickered in the kiln light, and I was entranced by the whorls and stripes of his irises. Their tendrils seemed to reach out to me—pulling me closer like an asp. The wave of inexplicable desire crashed over me, and even the faintest voice in my head, trying to warn me, seemed gurgling underwater. I was overcome by an almost primal need.
