She stared at me for several seconds, her gaze lingering on my face, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. I couldn’t imagine what she saw in my bleary eyes and splotchy, red cheeks that interested her so much. Finally, the woman pushed back her chair, got to her feet, and stretched out her hand in my direction.

“Hello, Gwen,” she said. “I’m Professor Metis.”

I looked at her hand, hovering there in the space between us. Because of my psychometry magic, I had to be careful about touching other people or letting them touch me. I got vivid vibes off objects, but I could get major, major flashes of feeling if I touched another person’s bare skin. Sometimes I could see everything a person had ever done, from all the good things she’d accomplished to all the dark, twisted secrets she held close to her heart. As bad as it had been to see what Paige’s stepdad was doing to her, the memories, the emotions, and the intensity of them would have been that much worse if I’d grabbed Paige’s hand that day instead of her hairbrush.

“Gwen doesn’t shake hands, Professor Metis,” Grandma Frost said in what almost sounded like a warning tone.

“Of course not,” Metis said, dropping her hand. “I forgot. My mistake. I apologize.”

Grandma gestured toward the third chair at the table. “Sit down, Gwen. Please.”

I did as she asked. I’d just plopped down when I realized my grandma had used my name instead of calling me pumpkin like she usually did. I sneaked a glance at Grandma Frost and realized that her lips were pressed together into a tight, thin line. She was almost always smiling, so why did she look so serious? Even her scarves hung limp and straight around her body, the coins on the fringe still and silent, like they didn’t dare jangle together right now.

For the first time since my mom’s death, some of the dull, aching, guilty fog lifted from my head, and I started to wonder who Professor Metis was and what she was doing here. For some reason, I didn’t think I was going to like the answer.

Grandma Frost looked at me, her violet eyes as serious as the rest of her face. “Professor Metis is here to tell you about your new school, pumpkin.”

I blinked. New school? I had a school already—Ashland High School—even if I hadn’t been to class in weeks or given any thought to when I was going back.

“What new school?” I asked in a guarded tone.

Metis smiled at me, her teeth white against her bronze skin. “It’s called Mythos Academy. It’s where I teach.”

Mythos Academy? That sounded totally pretentious, like some fancy, froufrou private school that rich people sent their spoiled kids to.

“It’s up on Cypress Mountain,” Metis continued, sitting back down. “Not too far from here.”

I frowned. I’d actually heard of Cypress Mountain. It was a small community on the outskirts of Asheville, some suburb up in the North Carolina high country that tourists flocked to because it was full of high-end shops and boutiques that sold primo designer goods.