Page 15 of Heir of Autumn
“Who else would it be?”
“Thank you for coming.” Namirah frowned when I rushed her, then beamed when I pulled her in for a hug. “I didn’t ask. Always figured you’d be busy with one thing or the other.”
“Well, it is a matter of great importance, Locke. It’s only the safety of the academy at stake here. No, check that. The world.”
I stepped back, stray thoughts clicking together like puzzle pieces in my mind. “Hang on. How come you’re always there every time we visit an elemental oriel? This is the third time in a row, now.”
She whipped a finger at Sylvain. “He asked me to come,” she blurted out.
I turned toward Sylvain, caught him pointing a confused finger at his own face.
“Me?” he asked. “When? I’m sure I would have remembered.”
Namirah really was the fastest among us, unless you counted Satchel. She sped toward Sylvain, deftly planting her elbow in his side as she pretended to give him a side-armed hug.
“You’re just very forgetful is all, Sylvain,” she said through gritted teeth, hugging him so hard she could have cracked a rib. “These are very stressful times.”
“Why, yes,” Sylvain squeaked, a quiet, controlled terror in his eyes. “I must have forgotten.”
I frowned, my forehead wrinkled as I rolled my eyes away from the two of them. “Weirdoes,” I muttered, letting it go for the moment, but still believing that someone was lying to me.
Why was that such a big deal, anyhow? I’d be grateful either way, whether Sylvain had asked our friends for help or Namirah had volunteered herself. Still, pretty odd that she always showed up every time we entered an oriel, completely without fail.
And then the entrance to the oriel hummed and rippled once again, the veil between realities quivering as it made way for yet another visitor. I cocked an eyebrow at Namirah, my arms crossed.
“Is Bruna coming along, too? Listen, I really appreciate your support. Honestly, I do. But don’t you think she already has her hands full with all the preparations for the Wispwell?”
“Locke,” Evander snapped. “Shut up for a minute.”
The shape that crossed over into the oriel was most definitely not Bruna Hernandez. It wasn’t really a shape at all, more of an amorphous cloud of mist that somehow maintained humanoid form. And was the air suddenly colder, too?
“Headmaster Shivers,” I said, addressing the sentient cloud of vapor.
From deep within their hooded robes, Headmaster Shivers answered with a sound that could have been a groan, a hiss, and a whisper, all at once. Satchel squeaked, then flew toward me, hiding behind my nape.
Shivers rounded out the Wispwood’s triumvirate of headmasters. Cornelius Butterworth represented the institution’s warmth, the spark of curiosity and ingenuity meant to be ignited in every student who passed through the academy. Belladonna Praxis represented the ideal of discipline, exuding the cold and rigidity of iron with her gaze and her very presence.
And Headmaster Shivers — well, Headmaster Shivers was a mystery. Maybe that was the very ideal they stood for, the deep seduction of discovery, the indescribable satisfaction of unraveling secrets both ancient and arcane.
Or — hear me out — or maybe Headmaster Shivers was all about their name to begin with. Someone who could make your blood run cold.
I wrung my hands, chewing on my bottom lip. I always suspected that the headmaster’s choice in clothing wasn’t coincidental. A hooded robe, the cowl so deep that you couldn’t fathom their face? And one of their tasks at the academy was to collect the remains of fallen students? The parallels were chilling, but everyone insisted that Headmaster Shivers was not, in fact, the grim reaper.
Running into Headmaster Shivers in the Oriel of Water was quite fitting, in a way. The headmaster was a thing of vapors, a humanoid mass of mist, or some other substance that resembled cold, wet smoke. Intricately embroidered gloves and equally ornate silken boots hid their hands and feet from prying eyes, which raised the question of whether the headmaster had extremities in the first place.
Maybe they were only there for show, for the comfort of other humanoids that the headmaster was forced to interact with. Yet when they walked, each of their footfalls clicked, driven by an impossible weight. When Headmaster Shivers clasped my shoulder in greeting, I felt a strong grip, solid fingers pressing into my flesh.
No one could say, really, and certainly no one was fool enough to go poking around and investigating for themselves. I didn’t fully understand Headmaster Shivers’s origins, but surely it was rude to ask about the physical composition of their body regardless. So many rumors swirled around the Wispwood.
One popular story suggested that Headmaster Shivers was born from a single puff of breath, issued from the lips of a forgotten entity, a nameless god. Yet another story insisted that the headmaster was simply a plume of mystic incense that had gained sentience. No matter the myth or legend bandied about, though, one thing was for certain. Headmaster Shivers was kind of creepy.
We fell into silence as Headmaster Shivers glided past, greeting each of us with a clap on the shoulder, a pat on the arm. At last they arrived at Sylvain, who had his head tilted curiously. And — wait. Was he sucking on one of his hard candies? Headmaster Shivers bowed their head, examining the little bag of floral sweets in Sylvain’s hand.
“Oh,” Sylvain said. “How rude of me. Would you fancy one yourself, headmaster?”
I glanced at Namirah and Evander. The three of us were long-time Wispwood residents, but I was positive that none of us had ever seen Shivers eat anything before. Was it even possible?
Sylvain lifted the bag to chest level. Headmaster Shivers selected one of the candies — yellow, chrysanthemum. Excellent choice. I licked my lips, swallowing my anticipation. Wax paper rustled and crinkled as gloved fingers worked at the candy wrapper.
