Page 25 of Foresyth Conservatory
“I’d like to see some of your work, Aspen,” I said, interjecting into the conversation when mine was at a lull. Really, it was more of a monologue about the brilliance of his counter-Renaissance work. But I needed to find a way to investigate him without calling too much attention.
“A true artist never reveals their work until it’s finished.” Aspen smiled squarely, his eyes darting to Nina’s for a split second. “You’ll see it at the Symposium.”
The Symposium—a once-a-semester public display of each of our works. The next one was on the Spring Equinox, less than three months away. I had to begin working on mine, even if I managed to get out of here before then. It would be suspicious if I didn’t dedicate time to my project, like the others.
There was so much to be done.
I was on my way to my room when I heard the music. It was light and ethereal, as if it didn’t belong to this world. It was strange hearing music in this old House, which at times felt like a deteriorating museum, or rather yet a mausoleum. But the music’s bouncy echo down the hall gave the House a breath of life, and I was compelled to follow it like a siren’s call. The music got louder and lovelier as I crept down the hallway toward it.
It led to a dormitory room like my own, cracked just an inch. Through the gap, I recognized the mass of golden curls as Sequoia’s. I took a step backward, as if the curse hadmomentarily subsided, but the boards creaked loudly under my feet, and the singing stopped. A pair of brown eyes found mine.
“Dahlia,” her voice floated.
“I’m sorry—I just heard—” I stammered. My cheeks flushed.
“No, it’s okay. Please, come in,” Sequoia said, widening her door. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
I weighed my options carefully. Entering her room would grant me access to her space—an opportunity to search for evidence—but I couldn’t ignore the gnawing question of trust. What if this was another manipulation, another trap, like Aspen’s?
I studied her face with forensic focus, searching for any trace of malice. But her lips were slightly parted, her eyes bright—not with calculation, but with something gentler. Curiosity, perhaps.Kindness, even. And that, in its own way, unsettled me more.
“It’s okay, I promise.” She smiled, and a blanket of golden warmth seemed to envelop me. I walked into her room.
“What were you singing?”
“Oh, just a composition I’ve been working on. It’s in Old Gaelic.”
I considered her, noting the undertones of red in her hair and the slight peppering of freckles on her nose.
“You’re Irish.”
“Kiss me,” she said, her smile widening.
A deep blush crept up my neck. What would Gabriel think of this charming stranger? I think he’d hardly be able to put a sentence together in front of her.
At my silence, she elaborated. “Relax, it’s just a saying. It comes from the Blarney Castle Stone—it’s a poem.”
“The interest in Druids,” I said, making the connection. “It’s your lineage.”
“My mother was Irish, perhaps a modern Druid even. I want to bring some light into their practices. Irish history is rich and layered, but we’ve been persecuted so long.”
“I see. That’s noble of you, bringing light to your family history like that.”
“I don’t see it as noble.” Her features shifted. “All scholarship comes from some form of self-obsession, don’t you think? We look onto the world to see ourselves. Maybe it’s the only thing we can do to make ourselves feel less lonely.” Sequoia smiled softly, brushing a rosy curl out of her face. I couldn’t help but think of my father and wonder why his form of scholarship seemed to be murder and mayhem.
“I wanted to apologize for the other night at Circle. You had every right to voice your opinion. I didn’t mean to bring you into whatever is going on with me and Aspen.”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize the personal significance of your work. You should continue studying the Druids, even if the evidence is sparse,” I said, hoping the last part wasn’t too harsh. “You could become a leading scholar in the field,” I added, and I meant it. There was merit in studying an underdeveloped field, of becoming the voice through the darkness.
“I wish Aspen believed in me as much as you do,” she tore her eyes away from mine, and I immediately felt their absence. Everything about her drew me closer, like there was an invisible rope tethering me to her.
“What do you mean?”
“Aspen thinks little of my scholarship. He says I got here through lineage—as if it weren’t the same case for him. His father paying off the Council is practically the same thing.” She puffed hot air from her cheeks and collapsed onto her bed. I tried not to notice her legs stretching across the mattress.
“He relishes feeling superior to everyone. That’s why he didn’t like Julian. Julian couldn’t have cared less about the prestige.”
Sequoia took out a little mirror from her drawer and started patting her nose with powder. “I feel for him, I do. If my father were an oil baron the likes of Rockefeller, I’d feel the need to extend my shadow. Aspen’s father never cared much for art, but he did care about being better than everyone else. Why must men constantly live in the shadows of their fathers?” she asked, closing the mirror and turning to me.
