Mom makes a noise—half laugh, half sob. “Gods, you’re still incorrigible.”
“Absolutely,” he agrees, utterly straight-faced.
She pats his cheek affectionately—then looks over her shoulder at me. Her eyes are too knowing. Too sharp. Toomother.
She narrows them slightly, not fooled for a second. But she doesn’t push—not here, in front of him, in the quad with everyone watching. Instead she draws herself up, smoothing her coat like she’s reassembling her composure.
“Well,” she says briskly, “since you two seem intent on giving me heart failure—and since my daughterneglectedto mentionyou were here—I expect the both of you to show me around campus this week.” She looks at Gavrail again, and her voice softens at the edges. “If you have time, of course. I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to.”
Something shifts in his expression—gratitude, maybe. Or regret.
“Of course,” he says simply.
My mother nods once, satisfied, then loops her arm through his like she’s reclaiming him for herself.
As we start walking, I glance back before I can stop myself. And it makes funny things happen to my heart to watch the always cool, composed Gavrail chat with my mother like no time has passed, giving her a smile that shows off that one ridiculous dimple—the one usually only reserved for me.
* * *
The first night of Parents’Week, the school hosts a welcome barbecue in the quad. The event is a warm, bustling affair meant to ease the transition between Whittaker’s rigorous world and the families peering in from the outside.
The picnic tables are bedecked in the flowers and ferns of spring. A guitarist strums mellow tunes from the dais. The air carries hints of lemon zest, fresh herbs, and something buttery baking. Students and parents wander about with sparkling spritzes and lavender lemonades in hand, catching up like no time has passed at all.
Rozsen’s parents came all the way out from California. Elemental healers, the both of them. They make it very clear that they find Whittaker… distasteful. Rozsen jokes that they raised her on herbal tea and anti-establishment ideals—autonomy over allegiance, intuition over institution. “Rules are for people too afraid to trust their own power,” her dad whispers conspiratorially to me as Rozsen rolls her eyes.
Elliot’s mom sits next to them. Her curly blonde hair and sharp blue eyes give her a startling resemblance to her daughter. She’s already deep into a debate on government overreach with Rozsen’s parents.
Amelia shyly introduces Peter and his parents to her dad, who made the trip from Vermont. All of the earth Magicks are drawn together at the far side of the quad.
Ian’s mother proudly shows everyone around them the book he bought her at Ink & Ether, and she’s as loud and vivacious as her son. She’s unofficially adopted Nate, since his parents couldn’t make it from Canada for the week. Sawyer’s parents couldn’t make it either—some surf trip in the Maldives, he says with a shrug.
As we settle into our plates—herb-roasted chicken, spring pea risotto, honey-glazed carrots, and warm rosemary rolls—Headmaster Thorne approaches the dais. A light clinking of glass brings the quad to attention.
“Parents, guests, and students,” he begins, “welcome to Whittaker. This week is yours—to explore, to ask questions, to see what your remarkable children have built and become.”
He continues, describing upcoming demonstrations and lectures, tours and special events. When he finishes, he steps down, moving among the tables, offering polite nods and handshakes as he passes familiar students and their families.
Then, to my surprise, my mother reaches out a hand. “Evander!” she calls, standing to greet him.
He stops. For a moment, something flickers behind his eyes. Then, the perfect smile returns, polished and unyielding. “Rosalind,” he replies smoothly. “So nice to see you again.”
Again?
They slip into an easy conversation. I watch them closely—the subtle familiarity, the warmth in her voice, the way he inclines his head. Something about it feels off. Comfortable.Toocomfortable.
My eyes narrow before a commotion draws my gaze across the quad, landing on Noa’s parents speaking with none other than General Silas Vaylor—the highest-ranking general of the magick faction of the Service. His attendance alone elevates the entire evening, a silent nod to Whittaker’s prestige and the promise of its students. His dark hair is threaded with silver. He’s older, but not softened by it. His ice-blue eyes are cool and clear enough to make you want to believe that only truth lives there.
Vaylor is what the Service has sold to the world: magick made handsome, efficient, and loyal. And yet, beneath the cordial smile and sophistication, there is something too still about him—too unpredictable, like a serpent dressed in silk. His presence commands respect and obedience, the quiet dominance of a man long accustomed to control.
It’s only then that I notice pairs of Service officers at each corner of the quad as well as a few scattered through the crowd.
Across the field, Noa catches my eye. One eyebrow raises in my direction as he tips his chin at me. I smile and wave back, then feel Gavrail’s presence before I see him.
“What is he doing here?” he mutters, suddenly beside me. His voice is low and sharp as ice, his gaze not moving from Vaylor’s back. A predatory stillness settles over him as he watches the group of soldiers in black.
Thorne eventually peels away from my mother, just as she starts launching into another meandering anecdote. He nods toward General Vaylor, and I watch as his polished mask reassembles itself in full.
I turn back to my mother. “I didn’t know you knew Headmaster Thorne.”
