Time stops.
Then, reluctantly, he draws away.
The loss is sharp. It leaves a hollow place that echoes as he stands. He drags air back into his lungs and offers me his hand. When he pulls me to my feet, the space between us feels like a wound we both keep reopening.
He looks at me then—not through me, not past me, butatme. And for a heartbeat, the world narrows again to the space between our breaths.
Something in his expression shifts—grief, hope, want—and I know if either of us moves, even an inch, a line will be crossed and something far more dangerous will break.
So I don’t move.
Neither does he.
Because if I breathe in too deeply, I’ll drown.
“Oh—right.” I break the spell as I fumble for the book in my bag. “I came to give this back.”
He takes it, but something catches my eye—a sliver of parchment tucked inside the spine. He catches my stare and his eyes narrow as I ease it free, heart stuttering as I unfold the fragile paper.
He watches, wary, as if the smallest thing could undo him again.
“It’s an address,” I breathe. “Paris.”
He takes it from me, fingers brushing mine. His eyes flick over the line, then still.
14 Rue des Fossés Saint-Jacques, 75005 Paris, France.
Beneath it, one sentence, written in looping script:
For when you and Celeste are ready for answers. —M.S.
A strange rune is drawn beneath it in silver ink. A vertical line with three tick marks crossing the top half, almost like a key.
My throat goes dry as I try to swallow.
M.S.
Minka Senkova.
Gavrail’s mother.
CHAPTER 54
The four years at Whittaker will be an unprecedented time in your lives. The person who arrived here is not the same person who will leave. No one leaves these halls unchanged.
—Whittaker School of Magick Handbook for New Students,“Founder’s Note”
The golden light of late afternoon spills over the quad, catching on the white banners fluttering overhead. Rows of chairs stretch across the lawn, filling with fourth-years in ash-gray robes stitched with silver thread as they move through, finding their seats. The mood is electric, charged with beginnings and endings, excitement and sorrow, anticipation of celebrations to be had—and the heavy silence of goodbyes waiting to be said.
I look across the quad and startle when I see a familiar face.
Blonde. Bright. All sun and spark, just like I remember—Alissa. She’s laughing at something a man next to her says—atall, bookish guy with a too-tight blazer and nervous hands. That must be her boyfriend, Greg.
I freeze. Just for a breath. My past in human form.
Alissa turns. Our eyes lock across the crowd.
A beat.
