Page 4 of Foresyth Conservatory
I followed his motions carefully as the Meister opened the drape of his coat, revealing the dazzling swirls of the red-and-blue lining. But all he pulled out was a crisp white envelope with the initials D. B. clearly written in typeface. With his other hand, he brought out a velvet pouch of coins and dropped it on the table. It made a loud thud, indicating the weight of his payment.
“Here—for the reading—Ms. Blackburne. But I won’t let you keep the money unless you open that envelope first.”
My jaw clenched as I detected the undercurrent of threat.
He pushed the envelope and pouch in front of me. I peered inside—several solid silver coins reflected off the dim overhead light. Gabriel would’ve had heart palpitations if he saw the amount of silver sitting in front of me. Everything in my bones told me to run, to throw the envelope into the hearth, kick the Meister in the teeth, and bolt upstairs.
But I didn’t.
It was as if Fate had sunk her talons into me, coaxing my hand across the table, toward the money, and then toward the envelope. It washerfingers that opened the letter,hereyes that read it.
It was Fate’s voice that read it aloud.
Dear Ms. Dahlia Blackburne,
Congratulations! It is my utmost pleasure to inform you that you have been selected for admission to Foresyth Conservatory for Magickal Arts and Occult Sciences. Foresyth selects only a handful of students each academic year for structured intellectual liberation, and we are delighted to welcome you to our prestigious community of magickal scholars and elite artists.
You will dedicate yourself to the scholarly preservation of magick through both academic research and applied artistic creation. Additionally, you have been awarded a coveted research fellowship amounting to six-hundred dollars annually, reflecting our commitment to supporting and nurturing your potential. At Foresyth, you will have the opportunity to conduct research of unparalleled rigor alongside your fellow peers and renowned magickal scholars.
I broke my reading to look up at Meister who was now studying my reaction. Forgetting any semblance of decorum I spat out, “Is this some kind of jest? You want me to join your magick school? One I didn’t even apply to?”
The Meister cleared his throat, pushing his pince-nez higher up his nose. “Ms. Blackburne—Foresyth Conservatory is notjusta magick school. Firstly, it’s a Conservatory. Students are artists and creators, first and foremost. They are not pupils learning by rote memorization. We don’t hold classesper se. Secondly, it is a one-of-a-kind program—rigorous, taxing, and certainly not for the faint of heart . . .” He trailed off.
I stared at him blankly.
“You mistake me, Meister. I am not a follower of any kind of magick,” I began.
“Please, I know your skepticism. I know the tools you use for your readings are mostly based on keen observation and Jungian psychology. You also happen to have a deep knowledge of esoteric religions and ceremonial magick, thanks to your father, which you lavishly display in your . . . performances.”
I swallowed hard. No one had ever seen through my carefully crafted ruse—a charade I’d spent years perfecting. No one had ever called me for what I truly was: a charlatan.
“I’ll ignore your ingratitude for the moment, because the academic position at Foresyth isn’t the true reason for my visit. I have a more honest proposition for your skill set. One I couldn’t commit to ink and paper, and one that certainly couldn’t be overheard.”
I squinted harder, searching for any sign of deception. His face remained steady—no common tells. A swell of intrigue rose in my chest, and I cursed my morbid fascination, a relic of my father’s imprint on me.
“Go on,” I said.
“D. B.—those were your father’s initials too, weren’t they? Daniel Blackburne? The famous detective who solved the Rothwell murders—the serial killer that terrorized Greenwich in the early turn of the century, ending in a grisly triple homicide. What a catch that was for him. Such a shame, his daughter wasting away her talents on commoner trinkets and show-and-tell.” The Meister stacked his fingers into a steeple and clicked his tongue.
“It wasn’t a show-and-tell a few moments ago when I had you dabbing your eyes. Did I strike a chord with you,Meister?” I replied, steady and sharp. I knew I ought to kick him out right now—he had overstayed his welcome. But the money sitting on the table held me fast to my seat. It could be enough to cover the repairs this month.
“Ah, no need to get defensive, dear Dahlia. If I may call you that? It’s much more befitting, given your girlish appearance. Though your display is quite impressive and accurate, I must admit.” The Meister’s eyes narrowed his eyes. “Still, your talents of foresight do not go unnoticed. I’m not here to make you a student—no, I think your skills are far better suited to other endeavors. Not to say you wouldn’t excel at the Conservatory, should you choose to stay.”
“I won’t repeat myself: what exactly do you want from me?” I said very slowly. The vestigial light from the grey afternoon had all but faded, a flash of lightning momentarily illuminating the room. The overhead lamp quivered with the distant rumble of thunder.
“Dahlia, I’m upgrading you todetective, and I’m here to hand you your first case.”
A long pause stretched between us before I found my voice again.
“Detective?” I let out. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath. The word felt both familiar and bitter on my tongue. “I can’t. As you can see, I run a prosperous and profitable business here,” I countered.
“Be reasonable, girl. You haven’t moved half of the original inventory since your father bought this place on mortgage for your mother ten years ago. Yes, of course I’ve seen the lien. I don’t hire anyone without proper diligence. I know you peddle your readings just to make your payments on time,” the Meister said, his tone almost bored. “Andbesides, your mind must be turning to mush, hearing the same sodden stories day after day. People really aren’t that interesting, are they?”
My chest clenched and my eyes stung at the corners before I even realized it. I studied the ageless face of the stranger across from me—the sharpness of his jaw that met with a narrow chin, the dark eyebrows that looked coarsely drawn with charcoal, and the avian eyes that peered straight through me like I was nothing but the moth-eaten silk of my shawl. It was almost enough to make me tell the truth. Almost.
I raised my chin higher. “My patrons are loyal, and I love what I do.” It was only a half-lie. I found contentment in taking care of my mother and the books—it was the last of what we had from my father. The last that bound us all together as a family.
“I suspect you crave much more than what the cards of Fate have dealt you. You cravepurpose. Not to mention, you despise being a fraud, and that’s what this place makes you feel like. How’s that for a reading?”
