He knows.
He knows about Mateo.
Silas stalked forward, rotten yellow leaves crunching beneath his boots. “Hello, Irene.”
Irene managed a nonchalant sigh, trying her best to keep her composure. “You couldn’t just have called me into your office like a normal person, could you?”
Silas smirked, the thin lines beneath his eyes deepening.Does he look older?It wasn’t possible, since none of them aged that way in the afterlife, and yet…something about him seemed different. It had always been impossible to pinpoint how old the Headmaster of Blackwood Academy was. He looked like he was in his mid-thirties, give or take a few years, with dark, gray-speckled hair and sharp features. But Irenesworehis appearance had changed. He looked tired. The lines between his brows more marked. But maybe it was simply that she hadn’t properly looked at him this way until she’d become an Ascended. Now…she saw him.Trulysaw him.
“Oh…but where’s the fun in that?” Silas asked with a smirk.
Irene suppressed the urge to throttle him, squeezing her hands into tight fists.
“How can I help you,Headmaster?” She made sure to carefully enunciate the formal title. If Silas noticed her subtle jab, he didn’t show it. He simply kept his stoic gaze on her, unnervingly still.
“I know this hasn’t been easy for you…” he said. “Joining the Ascended after what happened to your friends.”
Irene stiffened. She hadn’t been expecting that. Is that what he called me here for?
Her chest tightened at the unwelcome memories attempting to break free. “They…they weren’t my friends.”
“Ah. Right.” Silas shifted closer. “What was it that Mr.Dupont had called you all…unfortunate acquaintances, was it?”
Irene winced at the mere mention of the other nominees. Ever since the conclusion of the final trial, she had done everything in her power to push them out of her mind, to eradicate them from her memory. And either way—what did it matter to her? They had been a nuisance. A terrible affliction. Olivier and his infuriating ego. Wren and her self-righteous philosophy. August and his pathetic yearning. Emilio and his annoying insecurities. Masika and her irritating loyalty. So why should she care? Why should she miss them?
Irene shivered as a crisp breeze blanketed her arms in goose bumps. “Can we just cut to the chase?”
Silas’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Very well.” He slowly slipped the glove off his right hand, flexing his exposed fingers. Wrapped around his index finger was a ring similar to the one worn by the Ascended, though the golden band was thicker, deep grooves etched upon its surface that burned with a glowing light.
Huh.
Irene had never seen it before.
“Have you ever wondered how far you could stretch the limits of your magic? How deep the well goes?”
Silas raised his hand, and it was as if he had bent the very particles of the air around him, a swirling palette of hazy color dancing beneath his fingertips. He flicked his wrist and the forest around them blurred, shapes and colors moving too quicklyfor Irene’s eyes to process. It was like staring out the window of a speeding train, an indecipherable cloud of color rushing by them.
And then Silas snapped his fingers and the world around them stilled. But they were no longer in the forest.
In fact, from what Irene could gather, they were no longer in purgatory at all.
They were standing in the middle of a park, bathed in the shadow of a willow tree, a glassy lake stretched before them. Leaves rustled in the wind—deep umber, yellow and crisp apple red. An autumnal palette washed in the orange light of sunset. And up ahead, just beyond where they stood, were…people. Couples and families lounging on picnic blankets. Joggers running around the edge of the lake. Students congregating in the shade.
Silas lifted his hand, tracing the edge of a willow leaf with his fingertips. “Look familiar?”
“Are we—” Irene broke off, her mind struggling to piece together what she was seeing.
Silas stepped forward, gesturing to the park. “Boston,” he said. “The Public Garden, to be precise. You liked walking here, didn’tyou?”
Somewhere in the distance, a chime of laughter rang out, drifting with the wind. Irene couldn’t move. Hot tears prickled behind her eyes, chest heaving as she struggled to choke back a sob.
“Is this…is this an illusion?” she asked, voice wavering. “We can’t…we can’tactuallybe in Boston.”
Silas turned to look at her, eyes burning with something fierce and wild. “Whatcanandcan’tbe no longer matters, Ms.Bamford. Not when you’re with me.”
Irene gently lowered herself to the ground, kneeling upon the cool grass. It all felt soreal. The thin blades of grass slippingbetween her fingers. The warmth of the sun whispering upon herskin.
“How?” she managed to choke out.
