“My file? The same one your friend, Mr. Ellis with two L’s, has seen,” she cuts in, scoffing as she climbs over a felled tree.

  Peter bursts out laughing, then sobers under her glare. “Oh, you’re pissed. But in his defense, he’s part of the investigation.”

  That Hiram Ellis, of all people, has anything to do with the Botanist case is beyond absurd. Since all the victims are Seers, it took years for even a single article to be published. The little public awareness they’ve gained hasn’t produced any real leads.

  “Who is he to you?” she asks.

  Peter looks uncharacteristically surprised by the question. “My mom worked for his family. When she realized he was just a lonely, misguided kid, she brought me to play with him. I hated him when we first met, but over time, I saw he didn’t have the charmed life I assumed. Prejudice is taught, not innate. We became friends, and he figured out his family—”

  “Are horrible people,” she interjects. “Beautiful story of friendship forming from the pits of hell, but you’re a Seer and friends with an Ellis. That entire family is infesting the government, using their wealth to get elected into positions where they make life harder for you, my parents when they were alive, and everyone you care about. Why didn’t you say anything about your link to them?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Does Khadijah know?”

  “Yes, she knows. Hates it, we used to argue about it early on in our relationship, but it’s been a nonissue until he returned. The Oracle Council knows, too.” Peter glances away and sighs. “I get it. The Ellis family caused a lot of generational harm. They’re the worst of everything you can imagine.”

  “An understatement. Your friend’s grandfather argued for harsh laws and penalties against Seers. His father came up with automating the Registration and tied it to a Seer’s Imprint. The Ellis firm defends corporations nationwide that prey on desperate Seers, working them under horrible conditions and draining their magic like fodder. The fact that anyone in that family even knows my name pisses me off more than anything.”

  “I apologized for that.” Peter levels her with a look, then sighs. “My mom managed to stop Hiram’s parents from sending him to Arcadia Academy until she quit to start Weston Academy when he was in year six. He left and barely returned.”

  “Am I supposed to empathize?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he fires back, rolling his eyes. “But . . . it takes a lot to realize everything you were taught is hateful and wrong. It takes even more to actively rebel and separate yourself from it. Hiram did both, refusing to work for their law firm. He spent years away, and—”

  “Now he’s come home to Mommy and Daddy.” Veda sits on a wide tree stump, completely unconvinced. “Tale as old as time.”

  “It’s not what you think. I was the one who convinced him to tentatively accept their olive branch and move back. It was the quickest way to secure custody of his son. If Hiram had his way, he never would’ve returned. Proventia isn’t a happy place for him. His father was absent at best. And his mother . . . well, you’ve met Simran, she’s—”

  “What?” Veda balks. “Simran? So Antaris is—”

  “Hiram’s son.”

  Veda’s jaw falls open. “And you didn’t tell me this earlier because . . .”

  “I’d rather you didn’t judge Antaris for a family he wasn’t raised in.”

  “He’s a child,” she snaps. “Do you think that little of me?”

  “No, I don’t. But you’ve got tunnel vision. You judged me for knowing the Ellis family, and you’ve judged Hiram without knowing him.”

  “I know enough.”

  Peter looks unimpressed. “You’re better than this.”

  “And so are you. Simran’s only compliment about you was that you’re not like other Seers. She sees you as a convenience, not a person, and worse, you let her. People like her don’t change.”

  “Perhaps not, but I choose to hope, because giving up is not an option.” Peter sits beside her, silent for a moment as the air between them settles. “I didn’t let Simran treat me like anything, I just know how she is. Play her game, let her think she’s winning, and she’ll do what you want. That’s how I got Antaris enrolled in Weston versus a different Mage-only school across town. I’d rather have him here, where I can keep an eye on him, and help Hiram sort through all this.”

  “But—”

  “Antaris is my godson for a reason. If anything happens to Hiram, the last people he wants to raise his son are his parents. He filed guardianship papers the moment he arrived.” Peter looks up as a bird flies overhead. “It’s not my place to explain to you who Hiram is. That’s for you to decide, though it sounds like you already have.”

  Veda snorts. “I sure have.”

  Peter shakes his head, faintly amused. “Trust me, he’s not the enemy.”

  “He’s not a friend, either.”

  Veda’s cottage is her fortress. Magic shields it from the outside world. Here, behind her walls, there’s no need to hide. The bricks keep her secrets, the mirrors see her pain. Living here is simultaneously comforting and suffocating.

  After her talk with Peter, Veda returns to her fortress, sheds her jacket, peels off her shirt, careful of her cursed scars, and opens the window to let in a breeze to cool her inflamed skin. Too uncomfortable to apply salve herself, Veda throws on an oversized shirt and shuffles into the kitchen. Half-molding leftovers means she has only one option for dinner: noodles.

  Her talisman activates, glowing a hazy orange. Someone is here, and she isn’t expecting guests. Veda flips the porch light on and peers through the peephole, relaxing at the sight of white braids and a familiar face.

  Veda opens the door. “I thought you were busy.”

  “Change of plans,” Khadijah says. “Peter is having dinner with his best friend and godson tonight, Marlene blew me off again, so I thought I’d come check on you.”

  “Glad to know I’m your third option.”

  “What do you mean? I’ve saved the best for last.” Khadijah removes her shoes and wanders into the kitchen. She looks fresh from meditation, dressed in sweatpants, a T-shirt, and wearing a serene expression, at least until she realizes what Veda is cooking. “Noodles? You’re supposed to be eating a lot more than this. Your curse consumes energy, even in its dormant state with the block on it. You need to eat enough to keep your strength.”

  “These are nutrient-dense noodles. They have everything I need.”

  “And bland. How you survive on the bare minimum, I’ll never understand.”

  “It’s quick, and I don’t need more than what I have.”

  Khadijah’s expression turns somber. “I wish you knew how wrong you are.”

  The water boils. Time to add the noodles.

  “Add a pack for me, too, and I’ll boil an egg. What else do you have to throw in?”

  Veda doesn’t know why she asks—Khadijah does what she wants anyway. Twenty minutes later, they’re sitting at the table in Veda’s favorite room. The solarium is four glass panels long, four wide, with four overhead. It’s cramped, large enough for a love seat and a small table, but the scenery is unmatched. Tonight, the fairy lights are on, casting a soft glow over their plates.

  They eat mostly in silence. Veda won’t admit it, but Khadijah’s added frozen vegetables, eggs, and spices have elevated the meal.

  “How are you?” Khadijah asks.

  “Surprised you’re here, but given the timing between my talk with Peter about his best friend and your arrival, I’m expecting a lecture.”

  “Eh, we don’t agree about Hiram, so . . .” She shrugs.

  “How are things with the clinic?” Veda asks.

  Khadijah is a healer who runs a clinic funded by Seer community donations and a quarter of the profits from her bar, Olive. It’s vital in a city where hospitals may employ Seers but won’t treat them. Instead, sick or injured Seers are directed to Khadijah’s clinic. Medical segregation is frowned upon in more liberal cities. Proventia is changing, albeit slowly, but many still cling to archaic beliefs: Seers have a higher pain tolerance, are immune to certain diseases, and overburden resources due to higher potion and elixir needs. None of this is true, but facts don’t matter to bigots.

  “We’ve made enough profit at Olive to order new beds and restock potions with ingredients you can’t forage. The bar runs itself, so I’ve been focusing more on the clinic. Peter’s still looking for a doctor to brew as many potions and elixirs in-house as possible, and he sells spare herbs from Weston. We got a grant from a pro-Seer group for new equipment. Might bring in another healer to handle emergencies so we’re not making house calls all night.”

  Only Seers can be healers, and they do the heavy lifting in health care. With their infinite wells of magic, it’s one of the few places they can use incantations and spells to cure as many ails as possible. Doctors, the Mage equivalent to healers, pull up the rear by handling smaller crises and brewing and administering all potions, draughts, and elixirs.

  Before Veda became interested in medicine, she believed the relationship between healers and doctors was lopsided—Seers did all the work, and doctors got the glory. But in medical school, under the tutelage of some of the best doctors and healers in the country, she learned the truth: It was mostly symbiotic. Simply put, Seers heal from the inside out, while doctors heal from the outside in. There was mutual respect on both sides.

  “Have you been going to Nénuphar?”

  “I went yesterday,” Veda replies. Fortunately, there were no tattooed men swimming around this time, she adds silently.

  “Good. The healing waters won’t cure your curse, but regular soaks will ease the symptoms.” Khadijah gets up. “Let me look.”

  Veda sighs and takes off her shirt.

  “You suck at putting on salve,” Khadijah chastises as she retrieves the salve. Veda jolts from the cooling sensation, then relaxes as the earlier irritation fades.

  “I can’t reach everything.”

  “Then ask.”

  Stubbornness won’t allow her. A brush of warmth is all Veda feels of Khadijah’s diagnostic spell. “How is it looking?”

  “Good enough. The curse is still dormant. The cyst hasn’t gotten any larger.” All good news, but Khadijah sighs, her expression tightening with guilt. “I wonder if the Botanist figured out the mistake they made when they cursed you and tracked you down, with the spider lilies at the park serving as a warning.”

  “Why warn me if they want to kill me?”

  “Maybe what Everett said has some truth. You’re an answer.”

  “To what question?”

  “We need to figure that out.” Khadijah helps Veda with her shirt. “I’m glad I was able to save you, but I wish it hadn’t meant trapping Sanguis inside you. I haven’t done what I promised and figured out a safe way to get it out.”

  “You and Peter have done everything you can. I appreciate it.”

  Khadijah gives her a meaningful look. “Don’t negate your own participation. You figured out the blood in the cyst isn’t yours and hypothesized that it belongs to the person who cursed you, the Botanist.”

  “Yeah, but we can’t test it or find their name.” Cursed blood never spills. It can’t be extracted willingly or by force. Veda chuckles darkly at the irony of having the identity of a serial killer trapped inside her, but there’s nothing she can do about it except wait for the dam to break and see who drowns with her.

  “At least we know they have a matching mark, and now they’re probably in town.”

  “That narrows it down. Like finding a weed in a pasture.”

  “Not really,” Khadijah replies darkly. “I imagine they’ll find you before you find them. They at least know who they’re looking for.”

  “True.” Veda sighs. “I’m just ready for this to be over.”

  They stare at one another until Khadijah softly asks, “Are you ready to die?”

  The question is an open wound, another truth Veda refuses to face. She’s exhausted. In the quiet, when she’s most terrified and overwhelmed, she is ready. But when someone cares, even a little, she hesitates.

  “I need to believe this curse has a purpose beyond killing me. If enough of their blood is cursed, they’ll die with me when this block fades. I’m willing to make that sacrifice.”

  Khadijah looks away, visibly stricken. “We can keep trying to get it out safely.”

  “You have another idea we haven’t already tried?”

  “Not yet.” She folds her arms. “You don’t have to be a hero, Veda.”

  “Not trying to be. But we’ve tried everything. Exhausted all known research. Connections can’t get us anywhere. There’s nothing left except to cause as much damage on my way out as possible.”

  Khadijah hugs her in silent comfort. Veda almost says something self-deprecating to lighten the mood, but instead, she drops the act and holds on tighter, longer than she means to, before pulling away and blurting, “I need a drink.”

  All she has is a half-full bottle of wine. They sit out back, facing the dark forest, passing it between them in a companionable silence.

  “You’re allowed to be upset about what’s happening,” Khadijah says, finally breaking the silence. “You don’t always have to keep your head high while you suffer in silence.”

  “I do,” Veda replies softly. “If I stop, I’ll drown. It’s self-preservation.”

  “Self-preservation isn’t always about holding on through every storm.”

  “That’s all I know how to do.”

  Six

  As the doleful cry of chaotic magic swirls about, doors rattle and floorboards creak. The scent of worms and driftwood permeates the air, intensifying as the walls weep tears that vanish before they touch the floor.

  Antaris’s nightmares are getting worse.

  Hiram can do nothing but watch as his son, drenched through his clothes and shivering, tosses and turns. He won’t let Hiram near. Each attempt to approach his son is blocked by a magical wall. Still, Hiram refuses to leave, standing guard, waiting for the barrier to vanish. Tonight, it takes only minutes. Antaris wakes up mid-gasp. The barrier pops like a bubble. The stench of magic fades, and for the first time in hours, silence settles. The urge to do something, anything, overpowers the advice he’s been given: Go at his pace. Be present. Give him space when he needs it.

  Hiram kneels beside the bed, grabs the fallen rabbit, and puts it gently in Antaris’s arms. He hugs it tightly as Hiram places a tentative hand on his back.

  “Breathe.”

  Antaris’s breaths race on.

  There’s more he wants to say: that he’s okay, that he doesn’t need to worry. Empty platitudes won’t form, but truth does. “I can tell you’re scared, and that’s okay. I’ll stay here, if you want.”

  He repeats it until Antaris loosens his death grip on the rabbit. Antaris lies back down, owl-wide eyes fixed on him. Hiram makes a quick decision.

  “Just a second, okay?”

  Antaris’s expression morphs into alarm.

  “I’m coming back.”

  Hiram moves quickly, first to the kitchen for a glass of water, then to his bedroom for a blanket and pillow. When he returns, Antaris is sitting up, holding the rabbit and a folded piece of paper. Hiram recognizes it immediately. He still has the itinerary? Confusion flickers into something warm as Hiram drops the pillow on the floor and spreads the blanket before sitting. Only then does Antaris lie back down on his side, blinking at Hiram.

  “I told you I’ll always come back.”

  It takes half an hour for the twitch in Antaris’s lip to stop, and another hour for him to finally sleep. Only when his son’s breathing deepens does Hiram lie down on the blanket beside the bed. He checks his phone and notices one missed call from John, Grace’s stepfather. Needing someone to talk to, he returns the call. It’s morning in London.

  “Hiram?” John answers. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” Hiram replies stiffly, worn to the bone. “You?”

  “Holding on.”

  They sit in broken silence with so much to say.

  “And Antaris?” Soft and wary, there’s sadness laced in John’s question.

  “School helps, but he has nightmares. I used to have them like this when I was his age. He had one tonight, but he’s asleep now. I’ve been meaning to ask if he had them . . . before?”

  “Not often, no. Is he . . .”

  “Talking? No.” Hiram hesitates to get the next question out even though he’s dying to know. “What was he like?”

  The ensuing silence is so unbearable, Hiram almost changes the subject, until John’s ragged sigh cuts through the line, his exhausted exhale is soul deep. “Antaris was . . . shy with strangers, but overall happy, creative, and observant. He loved the bow ties Grace made him. Like her, he was curious. Smiled often, laughed more. She used to call him the sun because he brightened her world.”

  Hiram tenses.

  Compel the sun to shine.

  “I—I miss her every day.” John’s pain is palpable. “I can’t believe she’s gone, but I also can’t shake the feeling that Grace knew she wouldn’t see him grow up.”

  No combination of words can return what he lost. “Grace sent a stone message to the FCD three months before . . . She left clues for the investigators, and called herself a dying star. She said she had Seen her end.”

  Knowledge is a double-edged sword that cuts John deep. He bleeds the sound of pain slipping through the line. Hiram pulls the phone away, giving him a moment of peace to grieve the daughter he raised from childhood. When he presses the phone back to his ear, the line is still and silent.

  “I’m sorry,” Hiram murmurs.

  “Nothing to apologize for. It’s not your fault. I . . .” A pause. “They told me she was murdered, but since she was a victim of a serial killer in the States, they would be handling the case. Have you—”

  “They’ve spoken to me. Twice. They wanted to speak to Antaris, too, but I wouldn’t let them.”

  “Are you assisting with the investigation? I remember how you pulled strings here when—”