Page 26 of Ashes to Ashes

“What did she experience?”

“Recognition.” The word comes out barely above a whisper. “As if she’d been expecting exactly what she felt.”

My vision briefly blurs. The tea service rattles as my magic responds unconsciously, Seelie light flickering beneath my skin in golden patterns I haven’t displayed since youth.

“Sweet ancient powers,” Orion breathes, pointing at my face with something approaching awe. “Your pupils are blown wide, your skin’s practically conducting sunlight, and you’re gripping that teacup like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.”

I blink rapidly, forcing my features back into composure. “Don’t be absurd,” I mutter, reaching for a handkerchief to blotthe newest tea spill. My hands shake so violently that I knock over a small inkwell, black liquid pooling across parchment.

“If you must know,” I interrupt his continued observation, “there was a reaction. But not the typical human response to glamour.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she didn’t become either fearful or entranced.” I adjust my collar again, fighting the urge to pace. “She simply... noticed it. As one might notice the quality of light in a room.”

Orion abandons all pretense of casual interest. “That’s not possible. Humans either feel our glamour or they don’t. There’s no middle ground.”

“Apparently there is.” I finally give in to the urge to stand, moving to adjust books that need no adjustment.

“You’re holding something back, scholar. I can tell by the way you’re arranging books by color instead of subject—you only do that when you’re deeply unsettled.”

Iamsorting books by color instead of subject. A childhood habit.

Only happens when I’m terrified. I glance down—indeed, I’ve unconsciously begun sorting by binding color rather than content, a reversion to childhood habits. I am withholding, not just from him but from myself, the full extent of my reaction to Ashlyn Morgan. The way time seemed to slow, the air between us thickening with potential energy.

And worst of all, the unwelcome surge of possession that flared when I noticed Kieran watching her from the shadows, his ice-blue eyes tracking her every movement with predatory intent.

“It’s too early to form theoretical frameworks,” I hedge, returning to my desk.

“Bullshit.” Orion’s grin returns, sharper than before. “You’re not just intrigued by an academic anomaly. You’re captivated by the woman herself.”

“I should show you something.”

I withdraw a slim volume from my private collection, bound in silvery material that shifts like something half-alive. Ancient magic recognizes mine.

“Records of the Wild Court royal lineage.” I place the text carefully on the reading stand. “Complete genealogies dating back to the First Awakening.”

The book hits the stand and every candle dims. The air goes dead still. Even the Academy’s background hum stops. Something’s listening.

Orion stiffens, all traces of humor vanishing. The temperature rises several degrees, his natural magic responding to sudden emotion. “Those texts were declared destroyed during the Sundering. Possessing them is?—”

“Treason, technically.” I adjust my spectacles, affecting complete calm. “Though I prefer to think of it as aggressive historical preservation.”

“This isn’t a joke, Finn. If the courts discover you have these...”

“Then it’s fortunate I trust your discretion implicitly.” A pressed leaf marks the page I need—still green, impossibly vibrant despite the centuries. It shouldn’t exist. Not here. Not now. But it does.

From the Grove of Findias, if the preservation charm is accurate. A place lost since the Sundering.

“I used to dream of a girl like this,” I murmur, more to myself, my fingers tracing the ancient illustration. “Covered in vines. Standing in flame. She smiled like she remembered every death she ever caused—and every life she could save.”

I clear my throat before focusing.

“Among the documented characteristics of those carrying royal blood, even when diluted through generations...” I begin reading, then pause as the floor cracks under my feet. Books tumble from shelves. The Academy’s foundation stones remember these words. They’re afraid. “Resistance to iron’s touch, affinity for wild places, recognition of glamour without subjugation...”

I look up at Orion’s suddenly pale face. “Sound like anyone we’ve recently met?”

The freckles across his nose stand out in sharp relief against his skin. “By the ancient roots,” he whispers. The wood of my floors actually creaks in response, roots beneath the foundation stirring. “You think the human?—”

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