Page 73 of Foresyth Conservatory
The cards heighten your emotions.Aspen’s words rang in my ears.
No. It had to be a coincidence. I’d just managed to work the mechanism from both angles. Any piece of cardboard could have done the trick. But even as I tried to rationalize it, something deep inside me edged otherwise.
The card had worked because I willed it to.
I shook the thoughts away, refocusing on the task at hand. I pushed the door open and slipped inside, quietly closing it behind me.
*
I spent the next thirty minutes scouring the Meister’s desk and bookshelf. The antique oak desk—where I had once sat while he piled on research topics—loomed in the center. I shifted uncomfortably at the memory. He’d given me so many assignments, I could barely spare any time toinvestigate Julian’s death. It was almost as if the Meister wanted me distracted.
I rifled through the drawers, coming up empty-handed. I wanted to findThe Book of Skornbut knew better than to think it would just be lying in one of his drawers, unguarded. On the second pass, I remembered a trick my father used to hide case files. He’d stick them beneath the drawer, in a hidden compartment on the other side. With that in mind, I pressed my fingers to the underside of each drawer, feeling for any concealed papers or false bottoms.
Still nothing.
A groan of frustration escaped me as I slumped into the worn leather chesterfield chair. If I were the Meister, I wouldn’t hide anything in plain sight. But maybe he wasn’t as careful as he thought. Maybe he’d overlooked something.
I opened the top drawer again, this time rattling it side to side, hoping to jostle something loose. A flash of white caught my eye as a thin slip of paper slid between the cracks.
My heart leapt, and a smile tugged at the corners of my lips. Finally.
I slid my fingers behind the drawer, feeling for the papers that had slipped through. The first two sheets were bloodwork panels. One of them had my name on it.
What the hell?Why was the Meister analyzing my blood?
The second blood panel was Julian’s.
They were dated for February 1919, almost a month before Julian died.
I surveyed through the other papers. Several of them were dismissal notices of students, issued by the Council for “academic misalignment.” I stuffed the two pieces ofevidence into my bag and then turned my attention to the letter. It was heavier cardstock, the kind reserved for deeds or wills. The paper was folded neatly into thirds, like a letter. My pulse quickened as I noticed an indentation between the two folds—a stamp. A circle enclosing a rose.
The symbol of Foresyth.
I ran my fingers over the mark, tracing the familiar grooves before carefully unfolding the letter. A weight settled in my chest, thick and heavy.
Dear Meister Christopher Renate,
Given the grave situation in which this letter finds you and the school, your presence is urgently requested at Council. We would like to discuss the matter of contracting a detective over the disappearance of Julian Earhardt. The exact location will be telegrammed to you an hour before the meeting on December 10th, 1919. We expect to bring this matter to a close as swiftly as possible.
The Council was involved in my recruitment. When I met them, they all seemed to know who I was. At first, I thought it was because of my father.But what if it wasn’t him—my thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.
My head swiveled up before I ducked under the desk. The doorknob rattled and I held my breath and started to count.One, two, three . . .
After a few seconds, the knob stopped moving. Whoever was at the door must’ve turned away after confronting the lock. I sighed a breath of relief.I needed to get out of here.
I waited a few more minutes before I got up from where I was crouched and slipped the letter back in between the drawers. I traced my steps carefully, making sure I hadn’t left anything upturned. When I finished, I slipped backthrough the mahogany door and crept back upstairs to my room.
*
The following few days at Foresyth, I kept to myself. The Meister canceled our mentorship meetings again, citing urgent Advisor business. But I knew the real reason: he didn’t want to confront me because he knew I’d grown suspicious of him. He had brought me here for a purpose other than finding Julian’s killer, and I was hell-bent on discovering what that was.
I bided my time before I tried locating my father’s journals. I attended the Circle but remained withdrawn, only speaking when the others pressed me. Both Aspen and Sequoia tried to catch me before and after sessions, but I avoided them by feigning ill or busy and slipping away. It wasn’t just what had happened with Sequoia that made me keep my distance, but there was a gnawing guilt over the kiss with Aspen. Not that I’d had much say in the matter—he’d practically tricked me.
But hadn’t there been something real between us? I couldn’t deny the attraction, the way he confidently carried himself in the Circle, the way he stood up for his beliefs, and pushed his fellow students to think critically, even if he did come across harsh. And his artwork—it drew me in, stirred something deep in me. Had he truly been friends with Julian, and genuinely wanted me to solve his murder? Or was he just another one of the Meister’s pawns?
Circle had ended almost an hour ago, and I found myself sitting on the edge of my bed, shuffling the Skorn deck to keep my hands busy as my mind raced.Aspen, the Council, the Meister.Was everything linked or was I descending into madness, just as my father had? I needed to find my father’sjournal, and for that, I’d have to return to the tunnels. I surmised that from the coordinates which extended beyond the reaches of the House. At least my encounter with Aspen hadn’t been for nothing.
A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts. “Ms. Blackburne,” a voice called, snapping me out of my trance. I stood quickly, a card slipping from my hands. The Hermit.
