Page 31

Marigold

Professor Undergrove’s office felt like stepping into another century—or maybe one of those stuffy antique shops where everything costs more than my mom’s monthly rent.

Dark wooden shelves lined the walls, crammed with ancient texts and trinkets that set my collection-obsessed fingers twitching.

A silver skull—larger than the pin on his lapel but clearly matching—sat on his desk beside neat stacks of papers.

Scout immediately perked up, sensing something about the skull that I couldn’t quite read.

“Ah, Miss Grimley.” He looked up from his grading, gesturing to the chair across from him. “I was hoping you’d stop by before the trials.”

I settled into the leather chair, trying not to fidget. “You said you knew my father?”

“James was among the most talented colleagues I’ve had the privilege to work with.” He touched the skull pin absently. “Brilliant mind, especially when it came to theoretical applications of necromancy. The traditional Council families never quite understood his approach.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father saw connections others missed. He believed necromancy could be used for more than just commanding the dead—that it offered insight into the very nature of magic itself.” Undergrove’s eyes grew distant. “His final research… well.” He cleared his throat. “That was a long time ago.”

“Was he really working with vampires?” The question burst out before I could stop it.

“Your father,” Undergrove said carefully, “was one of the few who truly understood vampire magic. He studied how they corrupted life force, how they turned clean magic sticky and wrong.” His hands trembled slightly as he closed his office door.

“That’s why the accusations were so absurd to those who knew him.

James spent his life trying to protect witches from vampire corruption, not help them spread it. ”

“Then why did everyone believe he betrayed us?”

“Because he discovered something about how vampires interact with wellspring energy. Something that made powerful people very uncomfortable.” Undergrove’s voice dropped lower. “After that attack in Seattle… well, the patterns he documented are becoming harder to ignore.”

Undergrove’s expression tightened.

“Your father,” he said carefully, “was many things. But a traitor?” He shook his head. “The evidence at his trial was… convenient. Too convenient, some might say.”

Scout chittered softly, and the silver skull on the desk seemed to gleam in response.

“What was he researching?” I asked. “Before he…”

“Something about ancient magic. The old ways.” Undergrove’s voice dropped lower.

“He spent hours in the restricted archives, studying texts about magical resonance and energy patterns. Said he’d discovered something vital about how magic actually worked.

” He paused, choosing his words with obvious care.

“The Council didn’t appreciate his questions about traditional practices. ”

“Did he leave any notes? Research materials?”

“Nothing that was ever found.” But something in his tone made me think there was more to that story. “Though perhaps that’s for the best. Sometimes knowledge can be… dangerous.”

The dead things in the walls stirred uneasily, responding to something in his manner.

“Professor,” I started, but he held up a hand.

“I’ve already said more than I should.” He adjusted his jacket, the skull pin glinting. “Focus on your trials, Miss Grimley. Show them what a necromancer can really do.” His smile held sadness. “Your father would be proud of how far you’ve come already.”

As I stood to leave, he added quietly, “Be careful who you trust with questions about the past. Not everyone appreciated your father’s… innovative thinking.”

I paused at the door. “Professor? Do you think he was really guilty?”

Undergrove was silent for a long moment, staring at the silver skull. “I think,” he said finally, “that truth is rarely what the Council claims it to be.” He met my eyes. “Good luck in your trials, Miss Grimley. And remember—sometimes the dead know more than the living are willing to admit.”

Walking back through the castle’s ancient halls, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Undergrove had been trying to tell me something important without actually saying it. Scout pressed close, clearly unsettled by whatever he’d sensed in that office.

The trials suddenly felt more significant than just proving my magical ability. I was walking in my father’s footsteps—and something about those footsteps had frightened people in power.

I just hoped I was ready for whatever that might mean.

The library had become my refuge, especially with Third Week Trials starting Monday. Professor Undergrove’s words from this afternoon still echoed in my mind: Your father saw connections others missed.

Was that why the Council had really executed him? Because he discovered something they wanted to keep hidden?

Scout helped me trace the magical currents flowing through the library walls, our detection skills growing stronger with practice.

The pure energy from the wellspring flowed clean and strong here, but we’d found patches of that same sticky wrongness I’d noticed elsewhere.

The dead things in the walls avoided those spots, their whispers growing uncertain when we got too close.

I tried to focus on my notes, memorizing the diagrams I’d need for the Trials. But my thoughts kept circling back—to Undergrove’s careful hints, to my father’s research, to the growing weight of everything I didn’t yet understand.

And, unhelpfully, to Keane.

Our evening study sessions in this corner had become oddly comforting over the past weeks. What had started as reluctant tutoring had shifted into something quieter, more companionable. I’d find myself listening for his footsteps, for the soft whisper of a portal opening nearby.

“Can’t sleep again?” Keane’s quiet voice made me jump.

I looked up to see him stepping through a closing portal, and something in his appearance made me pause. His movements were more careful than usual, his eyes slightly unfocused. The corruption in his magic seemed darker tonight, spreading like ink through water—wrong, unnatural.

“Just trying to understand all this before Monday.” I gestured at my open book, studying him with growing concern. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction. “Just came from my uncle’s.” He left it at that, as if it explained everything.

The stabilization sessions. He’d mentioned them before—briefly, reluctantly. Now I wondered what they really entailed.

He moved closer, but I noticed how he braced himself against the bookshelf for a moment, as if gathering strength. Wisp flickered near his feet, more unstable than usual, while Scout tensed against my palm.

“I saw your work in class today.” His voice stayed low, controlled despite whatever strain he was under. “You’re making real progress.”

I exhaled, half relieved, half unsettled by how quickly he’d changed the subject. “Thanks to your help.”

“I was looking for you,” he admitted, his careful composure slipping just slightly.

My heart stuttered. “Through your portals?”

His lips parted slightly, hesitation flickering across his face. “They have a way of finding what matters.”

The quiet admission hung between us. Whatever his uncle’s sessions involved, they hadn’t stopped him from seeking me out afterward. That meant something, though I wasn’t sure what.

Instead of continuing, Keane lifted a hand, opening a small portal beside us.

Through it, I could see the night sky—but not as it appeared from the library windows.

This view was impossibly close, like we could reach out and touch the stars themselves.

The edges of the portal shimmered, cleaner than I’d seen from him tonight.

“There’s a meteor shower,” he said, offering his hand. “You’ve been studying for hours. Maybe a short break would help?”

I hesitated, but only for a moment. I should have said no. I should have gone back to my notes, to my father’s secrets, to the safer distance between us.

Instead, I took his offered hand.

His fingers curled around mine, warm and steady, and where our magic touched, everything clicked into place. No darkness, no wrongness, just that same perfect harmony I’d felt before—the way magic was meant to be. I felt him relax slightly, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

We emerged on one of Wickem’s highest towers, far above the library’s peaked roof.

The stars stretched endless above us, silver-bright against the deep velvet sky.

The first meteor streaked across the horizon, leaving a trail of white fire in its wake.

Scout and Wisp moved to the tower’s edge, while we stood in silence.

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered.

“Yes.”

When I glanced over, he wasn’t looking at the sky.

The realization sent warmth curling in my stomach, spreading through my limbs.

The quiet moments we’d shared over these weeks—the brush of hands passing books, the shared smiles when I mastered a difficult concept, the way he always seemed to know when I needed encouragement—they’d all been leading to this moment.

Keane’s gaze dipped to my lips for the barest fraction of a second before he caught himself. I saw the moment he tried to stop this.

He failed.

His lips met mine, and my heart fluttered.

His kiss was gentle, careful—like he was afraid I might shatter. Or maybe he was the one who might break. My hands curled into his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pulling away. If there was hesitation in him, I wanted to erase it, to tell him that whatever this was, I wasn’t running.

The dead things in the tower walls sighed happily, their whispers full of ancient memories of other kisses shared beneath these stars.

When we finally broke apart, his forehead rested against mine, breath uneven, pulse unsteady.

I should have said something, but my thoughts were a tangled mess—because I hadn’t just kissed Keane. I had wanted to.

His fingers stayed tangled with mine, the warmth between us undeniable, and yet—

The pure energy flowing through our joined magic only made the corruption in his other spells more alarming. Whatever these stabilization sessions were supposed to accomplish, they seemed to be doing the opposite. But I didn’t know how to tell him that without driving him away.

Undergrove’s words surfaced again. Your father saw connections others missed. Had my father discovered something about magic itself? Something the Council hadn’t wanted to be revealed?

“I should take you back to your studies,” Keane murmured. But he didn’t move.

“Probably.” I didn’t move either.

Not yet. Not while the stars were still falling, and his hand was still in mine, and our magic still hummed with something unspoken between us.

So we stayed. Watching meteors paint silver trails across the sky while we pretended we were still studying. He corrected me when I fumbled the details of a magical equation, his voice dipping into something lower, softer.

Neither of us let go.