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She ignored him, pointing a finger between them.

“I did wonder how you roped him into all this. Very risky, though, betting your familiar and your final hope on a medieval knight whose only historical account of sexuality is the subtext of being unfailingly loyal and buried with his old master. Lucky you.”

Ambrose felt like he’d swallowed swamp water. Hellebore knowing anything about his sexual appetites was beyond uncomfortable. Inferring those appetites hungered for Emery in particular?

He was not ready to confront that, and certainly not with her.

“Speaking of getting lucky,” Emery said, “where is that angelic ingenue you always have hanging off your arm? I didn’t see her in the lecture hall.”

For a brief second, Hellebore’s haughty demeanor shattered, flinty eyes going suspiciously shiny. “It was only a fling. She’s far too innocent for anything long-term.”

Replaying the moment pain flashed across her face, Ambrose wondered if the limp didn’t disguise a broken limb.

On the surface, she looked as well manicured as topiary—not a smudge to her lipstick, not a chip in the obsidian paint of her nails—but she’d been shaken when Morcant went missing. A hint of that frantic energy remained.

“That’s a pity. I thought she’d be good for you,” Emery said.

“Then you don’t know me very well.” To end the conversation, she gestured to the lecture hall doors. “After you.”

“Actually, I’m not feeling well.” Accompanied by a lingering sniffle, Emery didn’t have to fake it. “I’m going home. Let me know if I miss anything good.”

“I’m not sharing my notes.”

“God forbid you be charitable.” Emery performed a curtsy. Sarcastically.

Hellebore went into the classroom, and they went the opposite way down the hall.

“We’ll have to be quick,” Emery said. “In case Hellebore has any suspicions and rats us out.”

Morcant’s office was down a long corridor in the eastern wing of the castle’s upper floor. Some doors were open enough to see other professors sitting at their desks, grading papers and preparing lectures. Morcant’s office was at the very end.

Emery paused and put an ear to the door, listening, but it was silent. The spell to unlock its brassy knob worked easily.

Emery whispered, “Well, we’re not likely to find anything extraordinary in an office he doesn’t ward against lock spells, but might as well try.”

Morcant’s office was austere and seemingly benign.

Ambrose hadn’t expected ebony shelves, bloodred drapes, and pens fashioned from animal bones—it made sense to maintain a professional air to his peers, after all—but it didn’t even hold the pretense of a personality.

Instead, it had the clean air of a functional place oft used but unloved, liminal in its purpose.

Emery sighed, clearly sharing Ambrose’s thoughts. They weren’t going to find anything here.

“I’ll check the notes on his desk, you have a look through those bookshelves.”

That brought Ambrose up short. Faced with all the spines of Morcant’s library, he realized how useless he’d be, because he couldn’t read a single one.

If any had crucial information, even a clue, he’d have to hope it came in the form of a picture or false interior with a powerful relic hidden inside.

He’d concealed his lack of literacy from Emery this entire time. He hadn’t been able to conceal the reality of his gender, his sexuality, or his history as the witch king’s sword—all secrets which made him feel vulnerable.

Yet, of all of them, this scared him worst of all.

Your mind was never keen enough to sharpen for literacy. A sharp sword was all you required.

Ambrose flinched. After his promises and apologies, the witch king still resented him.

Though he didn’t relish the notion of revealing his deficiency to Emery, he couldn’t abide standing here and pretending to help.

“I can’t read them,” Ambrose said.

Emery didn’t look up from the desk. “Are they in a different language?”

“No, I mean I can’t read.” Ambrose tried not to let shame bow his spine, but his posture became more defensive regardless. “At all.”

Emery’s brows creased over his big brown eyes. “Really?”

“I was never taught. I’m sorry.” Ambrose cast around for anything to look at except Emery’s face, which he couldn’t read, either.

Emery put down the sheaf of paper he’d been leafing through and crossed the room. He scanned the rows of books while Ambrose awaited judgment.

“Would you like to learn?”

Ambrose startled. “Could you?”

“Not, like, here this instant , but at home,” Emery said.

“I’ll be of little use to you here.”

“Keep watch for anyone coming. And—” He paused briefly before spitting out the rest. “Keep me company.”

Ambrose brightened with relief. Habit had prepared him for scorn, derision, punishment—never compassion or generosity. These lighter feelings weighed on him more heavily for their unfamiliarity, but they also made him unbearably fond of Emery.

He was going to learn to read …

Ambrose kept watch while Emery went through everything on Morcant’s desk, his search becoming more frenzied the longer he didn’t find anything. Finally, while flipping through a thick notebook, he said, “Aha!”

Ambrose looked up. “What is it?”

“Nothing. That’s the sound I hoped I would make in earnest when I came across anything remotely useful, but this is his diary keeping his entire schedule and a list of errands from the past year, and I can’t find anything worthwhile.

It’s just grocery lists and a lecture itinerary.

He doesn’t even write down our guild meetings. Definitely nothing about a grimoire.”

They couldn’t surrender with nothing. “Does he have any recent or future engagements?”

Emery flipped a page. “He wrote a reminder to buy blue morpho butterfly wings at the apothecary. They’re used in transmutation spells, but that could be for anything. Oh, wait … He has an appointment listed this Wednesday. ‘One a.m. at the Mavon Bridge.’ It doesn’t say who with.”

“That’s late for an engagement.”

Emery nodded. “Unless he attends secret raves. Not like it could be a doctor’s appointment, though, he’d never need one.”

“We could follow him.”

It wasn’t the strongest lead, having no obvious connection to Morcant’s immortality, but they were running out of time before his lecture ended.

The clock struck noon as they left the deserted office corridor and joined the throngs of students leaving their classes. Ambrose couldn’t quite believe they’d managed it without getting caught, but as they approached the gate leading out of the castle grounds, a familiar figure awaited them.

Emery stopped short.

“You missed class today. I’m glad I caught you.”

Morcant waited in the portcullis. As he strode toward them, Emery’s hand brushed Ambrose’s briefly. Whether by accident or because he sought reassurance, Ambrose didn’t know. He stepped in front of Emery anyway.

“We were just heading home.” Emery didn’t bother saying he was ill.

“I’d like a word before you do.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“I didn’t mean you,” Morcant said. “It’s your charming friend I’d like to talk to.”