“It’s going to be impossible to find a dust pendant outside of the black market,” Rowan points out, glancing at me like he’sjust nowrealizing this has become creepy.
The professor nods. “If I still had mine, I’d give it to you.”
“What did you do with it?” I ask, my voice sounding small even to my own ears.
“I destroyed it after…” He goes silent, like he started talking before he thought better of it. “I had no use for it anymore. I moved on to different studies.”
“And your pixie helper?” I ask. “What happened to him?”
“Her.” The professor’s frown deepens. “She passed away.”
“While you were working on your experiments?” I ask, aghast.
“No,” he says thoughtfully. “But I’ve always wondered…”
“What did she die of?” Rowan demands.
“Cottage cough.”
The fae don’t catch human diseases, and vice versa. But we have our own illnesses, and cottage cough is no worse than the common cold. It’s almost unheard of for someone to die from it.
Unless their magic was compromised.
Which hers was.
“We worked together for five years,” Professor Bellview says gently. “If she passed away because of our experiments, it was because we kept at them for too long. I don’t expect you have anything to worry about.”
I nod, but my throat is tightening with panic. This isn’t what I signed up for. I thought I was going to learn how to wield my magic. I thought it was going to stayinsideme, where it belongs.
I stay quiet as Rowan and the professor discuss it, barely remembering to murmur a goodbye when it’s time to leave the office.
Rowan sits on my shoulder as we walk down the hall, unusually quiet. When we step outside, we’re greeted by storm clouds. If I’m not careful, I’m going to flood the campus.
A grumble of thunder sends several students scurrying inside.
“I have to stop by the office and let them know we’re leaving,” I remind Rowan.
“Take that path up ahead, the one that cuts through the garden.”
We just make it inside before it starts pouring. Rowan doesn’t say anything, and I don’t know him well enough to sense his mood.
A dour-looking woman sits at the receptionist counter, scowling at the sky through the window. “It wasn’t supposed to rain today.”
I glance out, trying to hide my guilt. “Weird.”
She shrugs, turning back to her computer. “You know weathermen, though. They’re never right.”
It’s really unfair they’re blamed for pixie mood swings.
“I’m visiting the school,” I say, “but I’m ready to leave now. The man at the gate said I needed to let you know.”
“Ah, you’re the pixie,” she says with a nod. And then her eyes sharpen on me and move to the rain-drenched window like sheknowsit’s my fault.
I force a smile.
“I’ll send someone to open the gate for you,” she says heavily, like I’m an impossible burden.
Normally, I could laugh it off, but I’m a jumble of emotions. I barely manage a meek thank you before I leave.
