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“Could be worse,” says Silas. “And anyway, we’ve got more of an idea now than minutes ago, and I call that a win.”

He says all in such a deadpan way that I almost laugh, because of how much of a lie it seems.

“Nemean Class, then?” Silas says, nearing cheery. “It would make sense, given the hemlock.”

I want to believe it’s that simple, but I’m nervous, and can’t trust that there’s no other horrible thing hiding in this trial. “If it is, and even if it isn’t, we need to find a way to make it ingest the hemlock. And then we’d need to hide for, what, half an hour? A full hour? Who knows how it would work in a creature that big.” I pause, considering. “Hell, we might not even have enough.”

Silas claps his hands together. “We need an Artificer.”

“Besides the Blood Hunters, I haven’t seen a single graduate on campus,” I mutter.

“But a Healer came to the room,” Fred says. “For you. For me. They must be around.”

I think, briefly, of what I saw on my way to the library that night. Before the Blood Hunters, there had been a flicker of something. I’d thought I’d seen something in the hall, studying—

You say that aloud and they’ll put you back to bed. Don’t be an idiot.

So I say nothing, naturally. But Fred, at least, is right. Graduates are around—unless that’s some other masterfully hidden lie on Drearton’s part. Still, even if we do find an Artificer, I’m not convinced of how they will help us.

So I ask, “And what would we get this Artificer to do? We can’t use a syringe.”

He shrugs. “That manuscript had hemlock down as a method. Which means they’ve done it before.”

God, he can be snarky. He’s right, but the attitude. “Fine. A wild goose chase through campus.” I put a hand to my head, and I know I sound like a right little bastard, but I do hate that Silas is right. There’s nothing else we can do. We are operating on the assumption that the hemlock will be useful to us. Now we must find a way to use it.

“Let’s find the others,” I say. “See if they’ve found anything.”

* * *

“Come on, Peter, you dickwad!” A sigh. “Go on, give it another kick.”

A percussive ramming sounds, echoing down the stone steps leading to the top of the tower.

A door opens beside me; a woman sticks her head out. “Cut it out,” she hisses. Her face is bruised, battered. A cut runs down her cheek. I assume there was more than one harpy for the dean to set loose in the greenhouse by the talon-width of that cut. “We’re trying to rest.”

“Sorry,” I say, though I’m not the one doing anything.

We’re by the east tower on the opposite side of the college, since that’s where all the commotion is. Most prospective students are recovering, from the looks of it, though a few are lingering around the base of this tower, eager to know why Bellamy Taylor and a bulky xenos are pounding on Peter Drike’s door.

I edge up the stairs. Victoria’s nowhere to be seen (good for her—this is embarrassing) and Bellamy’s yelling for Peter’s attention as Leo’s trying to kick the door in.

I ask, half yelling, “What the bloody fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Saw Drike leaving the library,” Bellamy mutters. “Bastard knows something and he’s not sharing.”

Well, we didn’t share either, I don’t say. Drike is just prioritising himself, and whatever crew he’s shacked up with.

“Stop it. Leo, stop it.” I edge between Bellamy and Leo, who is sweating, and furious, and God, he can be an idiot. He looks at me and his expression slips into something sheepish. I force myself between the pair and knock—firmly but politely—upon the wood.

“Peter? It’s Cassius.”

“Fuck off, faggot,” comes the muffled reply.

“Charming as always.” I glance up at Leo again. His face is lively with renewed fury. I reach out and touch his hand, and wait until it looks like the urge to pulverise Peter Drike is contained.

Sighing, I glance back at the Lins. Silas’ stare is firm, and I fancy he knows what I’m thinking of doing, because he gestures to the door and nods. I turn back and say, very quietly, “Peter, we know about the third trial.”

A scoff. “Bullshit.”