Page 7 of Bone Year

He’s fae.

He reaches into his cloak and produces a rolled piece of parchment, the paper bound with a seal of deep-blue wax. He holds it out to me, stoic and yet observant.

“Ashwell Academy of Medicine and Alchemy has accepted your application.”

Chapter Three

“I thought Ashwell would teach me how to save lives. It taught me how to survive them.”

— Unattributed Student Journal, Confiscated

I stare at him then at the parchment, my mind lagging. Slowly, I take it from his hand.

“That’s not possible,” I say. “I didn’t apply.”

The wax seal breaks with a soft crack beneath my fingers as I unroll the parchment, my heart thrumming in my chest as fast as a hummingbird.

I read the neatly written script first.

Maelis Rose,

You have been accepted to Ashwell Academy of Medicine and Alchemy.

Your presence is expected immediately.

Further instruction will be provided upon arrival.

My breath catches as I reach the final line. Expected immediately.

Then my eyes drop to the bottom of the page.

Something has been scribbled there, darker and uneven, as if written in haste.

“Blood remembers what history forgets. Your father knows you are ready.”

My mouth goes dry as I swallow.

My father.

Did he send in my application before he died? Is he tied to this somehow? He must be. It says it right here. My pulse thunders as questions spiral faster than I can hold onto them.

“Who wrote this?” I ask.

The moment I say it, the parchment flares hot in my hands. Silver flames race across the page, swallowing ink and paper alike. I yelp, jerking back as the scroll disintegrates into nothing but drifting ash.

“I see you accept,” he says.

My gaze snaps back to him, to eyes so pale they nearly blend into the gray of his hair. In the dim room, they look almost white. “I did no such thing.” I shake my head and try to process what the hell is happening.

“I’m sorry, Miss Rose,” he says calmly, “but the invitation only burns silver when the student has decided. Whether verbalized or not, you have chosen to accept.”

My eyes drop to my hands where the parchment had been, my fingers curling instinctively as if it might still be there. Did I decide? I don’t know. I think I did. Some part of me was already reaching for it the moment I saw my father was mentioned. Whatever connection exists, whatever truth is buried in Ashwell, I need to know it. Who wrote that? I need answers.

Fuck.

I did accept, and whatever magic binds Ashwell knew it.

“I don’t even know where Ashwell is,” I say, shifting my weight anxiously. “I don’t know how to get there. How long do I have?”