Page 27 of Foresyth Conservatory
“I’ve never seen so many clothes in my life,” I said, still smiling.
She laughed through her nose. “Neither have I! I didn’t realize I brought so many with me.”
“I tried on seventeen different skirts,” I mused.
We looked around at the puddle of clothing we lay on top of and both of us broke out into laughter. I couldn’t remember the last time I had laughed this hard.
“Does Aspen’s closet also look like this?” I teased through a grin. But at the mention of his name, I saw her spirit falter. Her eyes dipped down to look at her hands, though a trace of a smile was still on her lips.
“I don’t want to think about him right now,” she said, throwing herself back onto the pile of clothing. I followed her motion and lay back myself, acutely aware of the warmth of her hand inches away from mine.
I pushed my discomfort away and instead decided to press. “Why are you with him if you hate him so?” I asked, staring up at the cobweb-ridden ceiling. Pockmarks splattered along the vaulting, and I traced patterns on it with my eye, waiting for her to respond. It was such a long moment before Sequoia said anything that I was sure I had only thought the question instead of speaking it aloud.
“Have you heard of a mycorrhizal network?” she finally said.
I thought for a second, searching the internal archives of my mind. An image of a plant system appeared behind my mind’s eye. “That’s when plants share nutrients through their roots,” I said.
“Exactly—but it’s not just nutrients. Sure, carbon, nitrogen, and other minerals, but they also share a lifeforce. Their network can stretch on for miles; they communicate with each other when droughts and storms are nearby, warning to gather resources. Their lives are intertwined in a way that’s inseparable without killing them both.” She stared at me, waiting for my response.
“People are not trees,” I said.
“We are. And I wish we weren’t. I’ve been looking for a way to separate our connection, but it’s impossible. That’s why—” She turned toward me, taking my hands. “That’s why I need your help. We’re friends, right?”
Is that what all of this with the clothes had been about? I was foolish to think that Sequoia was being nice to me from the kindness of her heart—of course she wanted something. People always do.
“My help?” I wasn’t looking forward to what was coming next. There was only one thing she could be asking of me, that anyone ever asked of me when they were in trouble.
“I want you to read my Tarot. Tell me how to break away from Aspen.”
“Though construction of the esteemed Foresyth House commenced in 1867, its completion was not realized until 1872, owing to a series of unforeseen delays. The architecture, inspired by Lord Foresyth’s alma mater, Old Souls College, required specialized building materials and construction equipment that was not readily available in the mountainous region of Enderly.
Additionally, labor shortages, outbreaks of disease, and land disputes plagued the project, rendering the site inhospitable and exacting a toll on the workforce. Several laborers suffered grievous injuries, with some requiring hospitalization, a testament to the arduous conditions they faced in the House’s formative days. Yet, despite these trials, Lord Foresyth and the remaining Founding Five remained unwavering in their commitment to the endeavor, ultimately opening Foresyth’s doors to its inaugural class in 1872.”
—Foresyth Conservatory: A Complete History,Unabridged, 1891
Chapter 11: The Wyrd
I had been sleeping dreadfully ever since my nightmares started, but last night was especially difficult with Sequoia’s haunting melody stuck in my head. I hoped that the time I spent cultivating our friendship would prove fruitful in unearthing more about her and Aspen’s involvement with Julian. Reading for her was just the window into her subconscious I needed to propel my case forward.
But first, I had to survive tonight’s Circle—and deliver a proposal of my own. It was my chance to prove that I belonged here, to play the role of scholar convincingly enough to earn not just their attention, but their respect. Perhaps even their trust.
Failure, though? I couldn’t afford to dwell on that. In a place like this, failure wasn’t just embarrassing. It was dangerous.
I hurried downstairs for a quick breakfast before heading to the library. I was the first in the dining room and grateful for it. I stuffed my satchel with several tasteless biscuits and poured myself a cup of black coffee (no more tea full of mystery herbs). I left the dining room just as Aspen came in, a yawning Sequoia on his arm.
Had they spent the night together after I left Sequoia’s room? I took a long gulp of the bitter coffee.
“Good morning, Dahlia. You look . . . different.” The taller tree hummed, raising an eyebrow. He looked handsome as always, his hair neatly brushed to one side of his face, and his eyes twinkling with a morning alertness I envied.
I glanced down at the clothes Sequoia had dressed me in. The skirt cinched too tightly at the waist, the fabric clinging in ways I wasn’t accustomed to. I didn’t appreciate the way it traced the curve of my hips—I also didn’t appreciate Aspen’s gaze on me, lingering far too long as I slipped past them both.
“Thanks,” I called from behind, not letting him see my face flush with embarrassment.
“You won’t stay for breakfast?” Sequoia said over her shoulder. Her eyes glinted slightly, as if she had been crying. Why was she so attached to him if he caused her such distress?
“No, too much work.” I waved my hand and left without another word.
*
