Page 92 of Foresyth Conservatory
“If there’s enough magick, the map should be ready by tomorrow morning,” he said. I tapped the cards again, hoping he’d sense my urgency. If another ceremony was going to happen before the Spring Symposium, I didn’t have much time.
“What would I need to pay you for a rush job? An inkwell?” I joked, but he didn’t react.
For a moment, I considered revealing that I knew about the ceremony and the missing students. But if Leone had made it to his third year, it meant he had watched students disappear year after year. Whether he was complicit orsimply a bystander, I couldn’t be sure. I respected him enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. But Aspen had a reason to be suspicious of him, and so did I.
“Do you ever wish things were different at Foresyth?” I couldn’t believe I was saying this, but I needed to find a crack in his resolve. Even a small one.
He just stared blankly. “I believe inThe Book of Skorn,” he said, reaching back to the tome on his desk. I grimaced, cursing myself. Of course he did. As someone so close to becoming an Advisor, admitting any flaw in the academic system would likely unravel his beliefs. I needed a different approach; I needed something he actually cared about.
“Yes, but . . .” I moved to the side and took a seat. “You care about the truth, don’t you? What if I knew for a fact that someone was deceiving you, and the only way to learn the truth was if you helped me?” My eyes flickered to the items on the table, the pen and the cards. “You once said I’d earned your respect. Then trust me this one time. I need the map as soon as possible.”
Leone adjusted his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose, and I detected a spark of curiosity. He regarded me thoughtfully before speaking. “Come back in an hour,” he said. “But know I’m only doing this so I can finally get some peace and quiet.”
*
Leone wasn’t just a scholar: he was an artist. The parchment I held in my hands was meticulously crafted, the surface bearing a subtle sheen of gold. Each tunnel was wrought in detail as if he had drawn the labyrinthine maze with a needle, not pen. Golden lines winded and weaved, showing a mesmerizing dance of paths and chambers. I hadn’t realizedthe system of tunnels underground were so intricate. I traced my fingers over the ones I had navigated, and the exact area where my own map became useless. My scrawled drawing was only a small part of the grand map I now held in my hands.
“How did you make this?” It was my turn to be astounded.
“Magick. Yours did turn out to be enough,” he said. “And this pen.” He turned it up to me so I could see the tip still glistening with a swell of gold ink. “It’s a Mapmaker’s pen.”
I blinked, staring at the orb of gold at the tip. He must have had the map pre-made, I decided. There was no way it was possible for anyone, even an experienced artist, to ink something so beautiful, so quickly.
“I don’t even want to bring this down to the tunnels, I wouldn’t want to dirty it. Maybe I should make a copy,” I said.
“You’ll want the original.” His tone was so harsh and immovable, so I didn’t dare argue.
I nodded, still stunned by the piece of art I held in my hands, but glad for it. I had everything I needed now. Just some courage and an ounce of recklessness, and I’d finally unearth what secrets Julian had laid for me in this hellscape of a school. Hopefully it would bring me closer to incriminating the Meister for theceremonieshe was running behind the polished veneer of Foresyth’s prestige.
“Thanks,” I said, wrapping the delicate paper and placing it in my bag. “I owe you one.”
*
The tunnels were darker and damper than I remembered. My Oxfords were not going to thank me for this. My feet splashed through muddy water as I descended the firsttunnel, then the second. Holding my breath, I navigated the labyrinthine walls with one hand gripping the map and the other prying open the compass. It took only five minutes to retrace my steps from the other night and arrive at the abandoned office I had explored earlier.
As I carefully stepped over a pile of fallen rocks, the map changed. I blinked, wondering if my vision was playing tricks on me. I wished I’d taken a replica, because in the stark beam of my flashlight, surrounded by utter darkness, I could have sworn I was losing my mind. But no, there had been three walls and three tunnels between me and the coordinate just moments ago, and now there was only one. It was as if the pattern had rearranged itself.
The air shifted too, filling with a pungent, sweet scent, like overripe fruit. I looked down, stepping over a gnarled root, and ran my hand along the wall for balance, my fingers brushing against something bristly. I shone my light on it: mugwort. I tore a few sprigs from the base, stuffing them into my bag. Nina could thank me later.
The tunnel walls were speckled with all kinds of plants and fungi. Nina had mentioned that mugwort thrived in these tunnels. Strange, how anything could grow down here.
I rounded a corner, making a sharp right. My flashlight flickered, the batteries waning. Perfect. In the last few moments of light, I pulled out the compass to cross-check it with the map. Leone’s map hadn’t failed me yet, but I wasn’t relying on it alone. I couldn’t explain why I trusted Leone, but I did. He reminded me of the Page of Swords—honor bound and truthful.
His map couldn’t lie, even if it wanted to.
When the flashlight finally died, I muttered a curse under my breath, shaking it uselessly. I fumbled in my bag for matches and struck one against the stone wall. I wished I had learned Aspen’s trick to keep a flame steady, but my match burned out after only twenty seconds. I counted twelve matches in the box—two hundred and forty seconds of light. It would have to be enough to reach the journal and make it back.
The map would only guide me so far, and with the limited light, my compass was of little use. The darkness pressed in, and a deep-seated fear began to rattle inside me.
Use your intuition,Sequoia’s voice echoed in my mind. It had seemed simple advice for a Tarot reading, but now, in the depths of this pitch-black tunnel, surrounded by who-knows-what, it felt impossible.
Still, I closed my eyes and listened. I just needed to read the House like I would a living, breathing patron. After a moment, I felt it, a faint, magnetic pull, guiding me forward. The more I trusted it, the stronger it became.
When I opened my eyes, I was standing in front of a door. Painted ruby red, its edges were sprinkled with rust. I reached for the knob, careful to avoid the jagged edges, and twisted. A sharp prick on my index finger took me by surprise. I jerked my hand back, noticing a smudge of blood, which disappeared as if absorbed into the metal. The door unlocked and creaked open.
You’re here,a voice resonated in my mind, darker and deeper than before. Julian? I couldn’t quite place the feeling, but I knew he was here—or at least, his energy lingered. The room was empty, save for a few splintered barrels and a dark, twisting crack on the floor. Roots, maybe? The roomresembled an old wine cellar. After a thorough search of the western wall, I stopped and simply listened.
Something had led me here, and I didn’t want to miss it.
