Page 10 of Foresyth Conservatory
“You have been accepted to Foresyth to develop your thesis on Hermetic Tarotology, with an arts concentration in theater. I hope you don’t mind my presumption, given your predilection for the performative arts.” The Meister winked. “You are here to obtain your graduate degree, and most importantly”—his eyes locked onto mine—“you know nothing of Julian Earhardt. Do you understand?”
I gulped, my throat suddenly tight as I nodded. I adjusted the locket around my neck that was tangled with my hair.
A feeling of dread crept into my chest. Was I really prepared for this? Not only would I be investigating Julian’s murder, but I’d also have to maintain a fabricated identity in a house full of suspects. Every word I spoke, every glance exchanged, every interaction would be calculated.
The Meister continued to explain my cover, but his voice sounded distant as the weight of the situation sank in. I was no actress, no professional infiltrator. My readings were performative, yes, but that was different. Those were controlled, guided by my knowledge of psychology and human behavior. Here, I’d be playing a much more dangerous game. I was stepping into a world I barely understood, surrounded by students who might be complicit in a murder.
And I would have to deceive them all.
“If any of the other students discover your true intent at the school—well, you know I couldn’t protect Julian.”
The Meister’s words pulled me back to the present, a shiver running down my arms. His warning was clear. If Ifailed, if anyone realized why I was truly at Foresyth, I would be left to fend for myself. My father relied on his allies, but I would have none.
“I understand,” I replied, but my voice faltered. I didn’t sound convincing, even to myself. The rational part of me screamed to back out now, to walk away from this mess before I found myself in over my head. But the other part—the part that craved purpose and erudition, the part that longed to prove I was more than a mere shopkeeper—kept me right where I was.
I’d committed to this. I couldn’t turn back now.
“Good. You are to report to me every week on your progress with the case. You are my personal research assistant, hired to help with another clairvoyant topic I’ve been dabbling in: Nordic runes. If anyone asks about your whereabouts, you are on official research business. If there are any issues, you come directly to me.” He tried at a smile. “Oh, come now, Ms. Blackburne. Who knows, by the end of this year you might not only have a murder solved, but also several papers published!”
*
The motorcar emerged from the endless blur of the black forest, ascending a steep hill along a dirt pathway. It led to an imposing black gate with spires jutting out, offering the least welcoming of entrances.
From what I could discern in the dim light, the house just beyond the gate was three stories high, its Mansard roof adorned with cupolas in each cardinal direction. In the middle, a stained-glass dome erupted from the structure, the only part illuminated was a clock tower seemingly lit with a light of its own. Ivy writhed along the outer facade,its serpentine tendrils clutching the stone in a grotesque embrace.
The coachman helped the Meister and me disembark, carrying my suitcase through the gate. We started down a cobblestone path that led to the main entrance. A lawn speckled with trees lined either side of the pathway. The wind rustled through the skeletal branches, their gnarled limbs casting eerie shadows. Once at the door, the driver handed me my suitcase and made a hasty retreat to the motorcar. I was alone with the Meister at the grand house entrance in mere minutes.
“Welcome, Ms. Blackburne, to Foresyth Conservatory.” The door rattled open behind us as if it had been waiting for my arrival. Dim candlelight poured through the entryway, and as the door inched further open, two eyes became visible. “Mr. Richard will take you to your room. I’m afraid all the students have already retired for the night, so you’ll have to wait until morning to meet them.”
I handed my luggage to Mr. Richard with a nod of thanks. The warmth beyond the threshold beckoned. For a moment, I lingered—glancing toward the impenetrable dark from which we’d come, then back to the golden glow of the house. I stood suspended at the boundary between them, light and shadow pooling at my feet. A jolt crawled up my spine.
I swallowed my unease.
I had always believed intuition was a poor substitute for fact. So I dismissed the feeling and chose what could be known.
Julian. My father. My purpose. They were waiting for me here.
And so, I stepped past the darkness and into the light.
The Acolyte & The Alchemist: Part I
The boy with raven hair did not notice when the copper-haired girl sat beside him. He remained still, his focus steely on the manuscript before him. He preferred the library for its silence. Two dozen students could funnel in to study here and scarcely cross paths.
That was why he had come in the first place—to study and become an acolyte of lost knowledge. Such a pursuit demanded unwavering concentration.
And yet, the scent of cinnamon and clove curled toward him as the woman brushed her unbound hair over her shoulder. His head turned instinctively, betraying him before he even realized his focus had faltered.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, the threat of a smile dancing on her lips. “This side of the library has the best lighting.”
Midday light bathed the grand room in gold. And yet, of all the empty seats, she had chosen onea mere breath away from his.
He furrowed his brows. “No, I don’t—” He bristled, meaning to lie, but stopped when their eyes met. The words became truth. “—mind,” he finished, the furrow in his brow disappearing. “You’re the new student, aren’t you?”
His gaze traced the sharp line of her jaw, the undulating curve of her lips, the proud arch of her brows. Her skin was the color of the coffee he preferred to drink in the morning—equal parts espresso and milk.
Why do novels always fixate on the color of someone’s hair?He wondered, faltering when he realized her beauty could not be contained by words alone. The manuscript before him lay forgotten.
“New to Foresyth, yes. But I have been a scholar far longer than I have been a student.”
