“The Unsung Founders Memorial. Carolina’s way of acknowledging the enslaved and the servants who built this place,” she says, her voice wavering between pride and disdain. “We get this memorial, and it’s something, I suppose. It was a class gift. Not unimportant. But how can I be at peace when I look down and see that they’re still working? You know?”

I do know what she means. This type of knowing is an expensive toll to pay. I can’t forget the knowledge just because the price is high. And yet, sometimes we have to tuck the reminders away today in order to grow power against them tomorrow.

Dr. Hartwood draws herself up on the bench. “But that is not what our session is about.”

I stand, but it’s difficult to disengage from the memorial, now that I know what—and who—it represents. It’s hard to turn from its strange mage flame, too. Why would aether collect here? I make a mental note to ask Nick about it.

I finally tear my eyes away. “I’m guessing my dad told you all about me.”

“He is very proud of you.” Her smile reminds me of my mom’s. Laugh lines at the edges. Lipstick that matches her shawl. “He told me you were bright and, more than that, wise.”

I snort. “Wise? I got in trouble my first night here. I’m not wise.”

“Not a trait one can claim or dispose of themselves, I’m afraid.”

“S’pose so.” I’m surprised at the easy way my own drawl slips out. Talking to her feels familiar. Like home. Like reunions and fish fries and potato salad on picnic tables behind the church. I haven’t felt like this, let my mouth move like this, since I came to Carolina.

I sit down, and she offers me her hand. When our palms touch, a low and steady hum of electricity courses up my arm to my elbow. It’s nothing like Sel’s gaze. It’s warm like spiced cider on Christmas. Hot syrup over pancakes.

“Nice to meet you, Bree.” She actually refrained from a platitude. An adult who definitely knows that my mother is dead. I’m stunned.

I stammer, “Uh… you, too, ma’am.”

“Patricia, please. Dr. Hartwood, if you must, but I’m not one for the ma’ams.” Patricia waves her hand dismissively. “Save that for the aunties who demand it.”

I laugh, and she grins back. I haven’t been around an auntie like that since my mother’s funeral.

“So, you’re my shrink?”

“Psychologist, counselor, therapist. I like those best. You’ve been living on campus for a few days now. How do you like it?”

Demons. Aether. Knights. Homework. A boy who makes me feel fuzzy.

“It’s fine.”

“Mm.” Patricia’s brown eyes seem to dig through my skull, like a drill covered in velvet. “Friends?”