Page 14 of Foresyth Conservatory
To investigate you,I withheld with a bite of my lip. Instead, I replied evenly, “To study, of course. I’m a scholar of Hermetic Tarotology.”
“Funny—almost sounds like tautology. Anyone else feeling déjà vu?”
“What do you mean?”
The students exchanged knowing glances, stifling laughs. “Let’s just say that Tarot isn’t a new topic here. Several others have studied it,” Nina said, her gaze fixed on her coffee. How many students? Was Julian among them?
“Yes, more common than I’d care to admit. And what did you do before coming to Foresyth?” Aspen continued.
“I went to Wesley. Majored in classics. Hence the Homer.” More thanks to my mother’s library than anything else. Even if the books didn’t sell well, I’d read them all. And when I was done with those, that’s when I moved on to the rarer tomes of occultism and ceremonial magick. All for fun, light-hearted reading, of course.
“Wesley’s prestigious. My cousin Annabelle went there for theater. See, Aspen, she’s one of us. Let her be.” Sequoia looked me over. “Although, Dahlia, dear, we should modernize your wardrobe. The dark plaids really wash you out.”
“Heard there were three suicides there last year, mostly in chemistry,” Nina remarked, eyes gleaming.
“Shut up, Nina. No one cares about your twisted metrics of prestige,” Aspen shot back.
“Bite me, Barlowe.”
“No thanks.”
The cotton ball in my cheek was beginning to saturate with saliva. It was time to excuse myself. “I need to find a restroom.”
“Here, I’ll show you,” Sequoia rose to guide me.
When we reached the restroom, Sequoia paused and placed a hand on my shoulder, her grip gentle yet firm. She smelled faintly of lavender. “I’m sorry about Aspen. He’s going through . . . ,” she started, looking away. “There was a student here before you, but he left unexpectedly. Aspen hasn’t handled it well.”
“Why did he leave?” I tested, the cotton was soaking onto my tongue, the ginger prickling my cheek.
“It’s complicated. But I was looking forward to meeting you. The Meister only brings in students he deems worthy. I can’t wait to see what you’ll bring to our group.” Her tone was warm, yet the statement bristled with expectation.
“I’m looking forward to being a part of it,” I replied.
Once she walked away, I skittered into the bathroom, closing the door firmly before spitting the yellow tea-soaked cotton into the sink. As I rinsed my mouth, another timely Latin phrase floated to my mind, one that my father taught me before he died.
De omnibus dubitandum.
Be suspicious of everything.
“One of the most splendid assets of Foresyth is, undoubtedly, its library. A repository of knowledge matched in grandeur only by its impressive art collection. Boasting over 20,000 volumes and an additional 5,000 preserved within its exclusive archives, it is esteemed as one of the largest libraries on the continent. The collection spans a vast range of subjects: art, mythology, and history are all represented, alongside practical treatises on medicine and herbal remedies. One member of the illustrious Founding Five reputedly achieved a level of medical expertise equivalent to a formal degree through dedicated study within these walls. A truly remarkable collection, indeed.”
—Foresyth Conservatory: A Complete History,Unabridged, 1891
“The seasoned detective does not ignore coincidences during a case. If something feels like it was fated, then it was likelystaged.”
—The Journal of Daniel Blackburne, 1906
Chapter 7: The Hanged Man
I took a shaky breath, my hands anchoring to the sides of the sink. There was no time to waste. I needed to make progress on the case before the ruse of my studentship at Foresyth faltered, especially with the threat of the other students looming over me.
When the breakfast hour passed, I crept back into the dining room to stitch up the chair I’d mutilated with my dagger. The food had been cleared from the tables, but my chair remained tucked in just as I’d left it. I bent down to the upholstery and began my quick work with a needle and thread before one of the students decided to appear.
As I finished the final stitches, I looked up to admire my handiwork. Barely noticeable, I decided. But, just to be safe, I switched my chair with Nina’s. As I lifted the chair to carry it forward, a strong breeze from the next room caught me by surprise.
Was there a window open? I peeked into the hallway.
It was coming from the sitting room, the one with the peculiar grand oak tree erupting from the dead center. I stepped inside, a ray of light reflected off a gilded mirror, illuminating the oak’s branches. My eyes followed the sinewy lines bursting through the floorboards and towering over the furniture. The House seemed to have molded itself around the tree, securing its branches as if it had long accepted the tree as part of its own architecture.
