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“Not family names then.”
“Were you-” Ezra cuts off, glancing at me before he finishes, almost apologetically. “Are you adopted?”
“Fucking hell, Carmichael.” Hardin’s thumb is making soothing circles on the back of my hand.
I glance over my shoulder at Fielder to see if he’s going to answer for me, since I know he’s done his research. A little stab of pain hits me as I remember he told Morgan about my father.
When Fielder just cocks a brow at me, I say, “No, I’m not adopted. My dad was a little too excited at both my and Desi’s births. We have pictures of literally the entire process.” I shudder, remembering the images. A lot of blood and far too much of my mother.
“Would your mom have… cheated on your dad?” Gideon says, wincing as he does. This question isn’t any better than asking if I’m adopted.
I shrug, trying to keep an emotional distance from all these personal questions they’re asking. “I can’t say she didn’t for sure. But I can’t imagine that she would. She loves my dad more than anything in the world.”
“Maybe it would be helpful to pinpoint the type of magic Sweeney has,” Fielder suggests, and the three other men nod.
“There are different kinds of magic?” I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the idea that
Ezra nods. “Yes. Seven different principal sources of magic. We call them sects. Each witch has the potential to do all types, but they definitely have an affinity for the magic in their house.”
In their house… Seven types of magic. Suddenly, the layout of the campus at the university makes sense. Seven main buildings, all named after the founding families of the island. Putnam, Hawthorn, Goodwin, Proctor, Hubbard, Barrow and Marbury. The buildings even make a five-pointed star with two of the buildings as the center of the star.
I frown. “You said Sweeney and Stewart aren’t family names, but neither are yours. Carmichael, Harris, Yorke and Brightwater.” I point at each of them. “I mean, I kind of assumed that Brightwater isn’t your family’s real surname, but the rest of you?”
“I always knew you were too smart for your own good,” Gideon says, shaking his head, but sounding proud, like he has something to do with the way my brain works. “My father changed his last name to become a televangelist, but we’re actually Hubbards. He thought Brightwater sounded more… angelic or something.”
“The Carmichaels can trace our lineage back to the Putnams,” Ezra adds.
I arch my brow at Hardin, still holding my hand, thumb still making soothing circles over the back of my hand. “What about you?”
“The Yorkes are one of the oldest families in Britain. But one of my ancestors changed their name to Hawthorn and fled to the colonies.”
Fielder’s hands smooth down my arms, drawing a shiver from me. “My grandmother’s maiden name is Barrow.”
I frown, putting it all together. “Okay, so you’re all from one of the founding families. I’m guessing that means you’re pretty powerful?”
Hardon snorts. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Technically, the elders of our sects are the most powerful.” Gideon says, but his tone makes it clear that is not the case.
“But they aren’t?” I ask unnecessarily, glancing over my shoulder at Fielder.
They don’t answer, so I take that as a yes. I wonder if they’re all more powerful than the heads of their houses. I wonder if their leaders are aware of this fact.
Ezra holds his hand out to me, inviting me back to the couch. “Have you ever noticed anything strange happening around you?”
I frown at him, but step away from Hardin and Fielder to take his hand and allow him to tuck me next to him on the couch again, curling my legs under me. “You mean like my room being totally trashed one moment and completely fine the next? My coat mending itself?”
“Yes, but we know that wasn’t you.” Hearing them admit it sends a jolt through me that Ezra must feel. His arm tightens on me. “What we mean is maybe you wanted something to happen, and it did? Or maybe you…”
“What? Had fire spontaneously erupt from my fingers?” The absurdity of that question is not lost on me.
“She’s gotta be Shadow and Veil,” Gideon says suddenly. When I just arch a brow at him, he clarifies, “Marbury. They have an affinity for illusions.”
Illusions? “No. No fucking way.”
Fielder strokes his chin and nods slowly. “Actually, that would make a lot of sense.”
“Why does that make sense?” I ask, and Ezra presses a kiss to my temple, while his fingers make soothing circles on my upper arm, like he can tell I’m having the slightest bit of a freakout laced with a fair amount of annoyance.
