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SHOCK, FEAR, HOPE—EMOTIONS war in my belly. “What’s a Wildcrafter?”

For the first time, Patricia looks rattled.

“Wildcraft is shorthand for the branch of Rootcraft she practiced. The type of energy she could manipulate is found in growing things—plants, herbs, trees. As a student, she spent hours here in the gardens and—” Her face folds into a sympathetic frown. “I’m so sorry, Bree… I thought this would be a comforting, familiar setting to you. I thought you knew about her.”

I almost fall off the bench. How many times in a week can one have their world spun and fractured and put back together again? A dozen? Two dozen? After-Bree presses against the walls that restrain her. Against surprise and secrets and another moment of my life that breaks the world open a little further. My skin feels prickly and tight. I shut my eyes and shove it all back before panic steals my senses. “My mother… manipulated energy?”

“Yes.”

Questions tumble against one another like dominoes. “What type of energy? What is Rootcraft?” Does everyone keep secrets here?

Patricia recovers her composure. She taps a polished nail on her lower lip, her eyes darting back and forth in thought. “I’m not sure that I should say any more.”

Suddenly, I’m so impatient and indignant I could shake her until the answers fall out. Scream until she shares what she knows. I grit my teeth. “Why not?”

She hesitates, but meets my eyes. “I don’t think it’s my place.”

“Why? Did she tell you to keep this from me?” A thought occurs to me. “Did my dad?”

She spreads her hands over her skirt. “I didn’t know Faye very well, and we didn’t keep up after graduation. I didn’t even know she had a daughter until your father called me today, didn’t even know she’d passed. And I doubt your father knows about any of this. Most often, the craft flows from mother to daughter.”

“What?” I shoot to my feet.

“Bree, I’d like you to calm down.”

“Why would I be calm about this? My mother had a secret life and she never told me. Why didn’t she tell me ?”

“I don’t know why Faye made the decisions she did. When loved ones die, there are always questions like this, with answers we can only guess at.”

Confusion and anger flood me in a hot rush. “And are those questions always about magic?”

“We don’t call it magic.”

“We?” My fists ball at my sides. “I just met you, and now it’s ‘we’? You and my mother?”

Patricia’s lips thin.

“My mother was a botanist. A scientist. Five minutes ago, I thought any manipulation of plants she did happened in a—a pharmaceutical lab. And now you’re telling me she lied to me.”

A fine line appears between Patricia’s brows. “Thank you for sharing how all of this is making you feel. You’re right. I owe you more than what I’ve said. Please, sit.”

Whiplash. “Just like that, you changed your mind?”

A smile tugs at her lips. “I find that, in my field, emotional agility comes with the territory.”

My breath comes in shallow pants. My fists refuse to unclench. But I sit.

“Do you know what auras are?”

A vision of the red mage flame washes over me in a hot rush. Was that an aura? Was it not mage flame at all? Patricia’s attention sharpens on my face, but before she can ask a follow-up, I wave a hand in a vague circle around my head. “Colors around people?”

“Mostly right. Auras are your personal energy, reflecting the state of your spirit.”

“What do they look like?”

“From what I understand, they look like a faint sort of fog or thin mist.”

That mage flame had roared up my skin, all fire and anger and blood. Not an aura, then.

“While an undergraduate here, I had a friend named Janice who was a Reader, someone whose branch of Rootcraft allowed her to see people’s auras. Emotions, intentions, abilities. One day Janice saw me and your mother talking outside class and later, Janice told me that your mother knew the craft. So I asked your mother to practice and fellowship together. She was very polite, but she declined. She seemed so uncomfortable by my offer that I never mentioned it again. I wasn’t offended. I thought maybe she had her own community. We tend to keep the craft private, but I thought, perhaps, she kept to a stricter code; rootcraft is taught within families, and different families have different approaches. Still, I am surprised that your mother never told you what she could do.”

There’s no air in my chest. Where is all the air? My mind is blanking, shutting down.

“Bree?” Patricia leans forward into my field of vision. “Take some deep breaths. Close your eyes and think of something or someone that made you feel safe in the last twenty-four hours.”

I follow her instructions—and my mind travels to eyes, storm dark and blue.

It takes a few breaths before I open my eyes again. The panic is still there, but it has trouble taking hold.

I believe what Patricia’s told me. After all that I’ve seen here, it would be foolish to think there’s no more to learn. But of all the secrets I thought I’d uncover, I didn’t think my mother’s life—and the magic she wielded—would be one of them. Wildcrafting, plant energy manipulation. What danger would there be in sharing those abilities with others like her? Did she believe Patricia was dangerous? That seems unlikely—Patricia left her alone. The Order’s militancy is more than enough reason to keep a low profile on this campus. But if that was her reasoning, then that means she knew about the Order and Merlins long before I was born. So, did a Merlin know about her ? My instinct says yes. Why else would one be at her deathbed twenty-five years later?

Patricia stands up to wrap her shawl around her shoulders. “Traditionally, your mother would teach you all of this. For you not to know when your mother knew about her own abilities means she withheld this information for some reason. And that means, ethically, I need to consider what it means to tell you what your mother did not. Perhaps it’s the therapist in me, but I would like to respect her wishes. I think we should stop for the day. We’ll meet again on Friday and I’ll give you my decision.”

“No!” I’m on my feet, heart pounding. “ I need you to tell me everything. I have to know—”

She pauses, frowns. “You have to know what?”

What can I say? Telling anyone that I suspect the Order was a part of my mother’s death could put them in danger, much more so if they use aether. And if my mother hid parts of herself from Patricia, then should I hide my abilities too?

I choose the safest thing to share, and phrase it carefully. “I know about aether.”

Patricia lets out a harsh breath, and I know immediately that I’ve said something wrong. “Where did you learn that word?”

“I—I can’t say.”

Patricia gives me a shrewd, measuring look. She knows I’m hiding something. Like mother, like daughter, I think.

“I respect and value confidentiality, and so I will not pry about what you know or how you know it. Instead, I will aim to earn your trust. But I must tell you that the… practitioners”— she says the word as if it tastes rancid in her mouth—“who use the word ‘aether’ are not your mother’s people.”

“Her people?” I ask.

“Her people. Our people. We are the descendants of those who developed the craft, and we do not call the invisible energy of the world ‘aether.’ We call it ‘root.’?”

“Now that we’re best friends again, you wanna get dinner together? A girl from my Classics class wants to meet up.” Alice wrinkles her nose. “It’s ‘Italian Night’ at Lenoir, whatever that means.”

After finishing classes for the day, we’ve been lounging on our respective beds, phones in hand. I’m not sure what Alice has been doing, but I’ve been opening my messaging app compulsively, as if Nick has texted me and the app is simply refusing to reveal it. Maybe this time. Maybe this time. Maybe now ?

It’s not embarrassing if no one sees me doing it, right?

I start no fewer than seven different texts but erase each one before sending, because what if I do text him and he doesn’t text back?

More importantly, what would I say?

I decide not to mention my meeting with Patricia to Nick. Not until I know more. And even then, I’m not sure what I should share with him, or anyone.

If my mother knew about the Order, its claim on magic, and its tendency to put magic users on trial (or worse), it only makes sense that she’d have hid her abilities on campus, just as I’m doing now. If what Patricia said is true, then calling my father won’t be of any use, because my mother kept this part of her life from him. So far, only Nick knows about me and what I can do, not counting the red flames. Maybe I should keep it that way?

Utterly confused, I toss my phone out of reach and flop back against my pillows to stare at the ceiling with a frustrated sigh.

Knowing that my mother was on Carolina’s campus twenty-five years ago doing exactly what I’m doing now—keeping things secret, hiding parts of herself from other people—makes me feel closer to her and, simultaneously, like I never knew her at all.

Who was she, really ?

“Bree?” Alice asks, pulling me away from my thoughts. “Italian Night?”

“You know what Italian Night means,” I say, and sit up, snatching my phone again, because apparently I’m committed to being ridiculous. “Soggy, overcooked cafeteria spaghetti and runny sauce. Sad lasagna that’s been sitting under a warmer for two hours.”

“It’s either sad pasta or the food court. Which do you want?”

The dormer window of our top-floor room is cracked open. The whoops and cheers of the Wednesday night party crowd reach us from the sidewalk below. According to Charlotte, who’d stopped by our room on her way out, “Wednesday night is the new Thursday night and, by the way, nobody goes out on Fridays.”

“I can’t go anyways,” I mutter, and my stomach twists on yet another lie. “That student group I mentioned? They’re hosting dinner tonight at their house.”

Across the room, Alice sits up. “What’s this group called again?”

I’m ready for her question and keep my voice as calm as possible. “It’s one of the secret societies.”

Alice’s eyes grow wide. “I’ve heard of those! Can you tell me which one?”

“No, sorry,” I say. I’m so sorry, Alice.

She pouts. “I was hoping to get tapped by the Order of the Golden Fleece, but someone told me they don’t go for EC kids. If that doesn’t work, then DiPhi it is.”

DiPhi is Carolina’s student debate society. If Alice joins them, we’ll both be in historic student orgs. The only difference is that she can list her membership on her resume.

Lying to Alice after last night and this morning makes me feel like a complete asshole. Maybe this is why Sel is the way he is? Angry and grumpy and accusatory. And maybe this is another reason why Nick doesn’t want to be involved with the Order. All the lying, the strain of being on this campus and living two different lives. I sigh. “Nick says I’ve got to keep it secret, keep it safe.”

“Did you just Lord of the Rings me?”

“Nope.” I grin. “I just Fellowship of the Ring ’d you.”

Her face takes on a sly expression. “Why do you say his name like that?”

“Say whose name like what?”

The ends of her mouth lift. “Your voice got all funny when you said ‘Nick.’ It’s the same exact way you used to say Scott Finley’s name.”

“I did not say Scott’s name in any particular way.” She did not have to do me like that. I was eleven when I had a crush on Scott Finley the baseball player.

Best friends and their deep cuts.

Alice points at me accusingly. “Lying liar who lies!” My heart clenches, even though I know she’s joking. She rushes over to perch on the end of my bed. “What’s Nick look like?”

We’d only started talking again—for-real talking, like best friends—since the morning, but the warmth spilling from her brown eyes fills my cup in a way I hadn’t known I needed. With my mother’s secrets—and lies—looming since the session with Patricia, and the memories of last night rising up like a nightmare every other hour, sitting with my best friend and talking about a cute boy is beyond refreshing. And, like nothing else in my life right now, it’s easy.

Still, I can feel my cheeks burning. “Blond hair, blue eyes, and…”

“And?” Alice prompts, waving her hand for more. Laughter escapes me in a freeing rush. God , this feels good.

Words stream from my lips before I think about them too carefully. “And he looks like a gladiator. Like those oddly hot dudes on the sides of pottery from ancient Greece? Tall and athletic and”—Nick, pointing me to safety with his sword, his eyes hardened with both fear and focus—“heroic.”

“Ahh!” Alice collapses onto her side. “See, that’s the good stuff. Even if gladiators are Roman.”

I poke her knees with my toe. “How about you? Any ladies catch your eye?”

She swats at my foot. “Nice try, but your deflections don’t work on me. I’m immune. Let’s talk about how you have a crush on your peer mentor. Like, the person who’s supposed to be teaching you all about school? And tutoring you on how to achieve success after your brief descent into delinquency.”

“?‘Crush’ is the wrong word. I just met him.”

“Bree.” She grabs my ankles with both hands. With a face drawn in mock solemnity, she declares, “This is like a book. Or a TV show where everyone has great hair and is way too old to play a teenager. You are literally a walking rom-com right now.”

“Alice.” I kick until she lets me go and hops up with a grin.

“I’ve got to go meet Teresa,” she says, walking backward and pointing at me, “but when you get back tonight, you’re telling me everything , Briana Matthews!”

I smile, even though I can’t tell Alice everything. Not ever. Not if I want to keep her safe.