The library isn’t any sort of architectural marvel—just an enormous hall divided into sections according to my dad’s sense of order, which is utterly incomprehensible. Only he understands why books on the Mage Wars in seventeenth-century North America get sandwiched next to fourth-century treatises on Islamic alchemy. It all makes sense to him and no student is brave enough to challenge a tietäjä of his standing. The word tietäjä literally translates to knower, a fact my dad never tires of citing to those who question his methods.
Except for the periodic grumblings all old buildings make, the library is delightfully quiet this time of the day, and that shadowy corner on the second floor is calling my name. Hardly anyone ever ventures into what Dad terms the “misinformed” section, home to books on alien connections to Atlantis and Lemuria. It’s the perfect sanctuary.
Wrapped in the shadows, I pull out my phone and stab at the screen. To send or not to send? Would Natalie even want to hear from me? Do I apologize? Thank her? Why is this so hard? It never used to be this complicated back when being around Natalie didn’t make my insides do spontaneous gymnastics.
I hit Send on a message filled with far too many emojis and then wait. And wait, and wait. Nothing. No reply, because the message hasn’t even been read.
A cacophonous clatter rips through the silence, making me drop my phone. With heart still racing, I tiptoe between the shelves. Perhaps MacCrone and Fiona have returned in search of delinquents.
Another clatter-crash, this time followed by a string of cursing.
There, right between the reading desks, someone is trying out skateboarding tricks. And failing. What the hell? In the library?
I’m content to observe for a moment as they attempt to balance. They look up and catch me staring. I start so hard I crick my neck.
“Shouldn’t you be in class?” they ask. They’re tall but drowning in an oversized sweater the color of week-old scabs. Their eyes are framed in smudges of dark eye shadow.
Morgan O’Connor.
“I—I, um—”
Useless, pathetic, you are such an embarrassment, the voice supplies, and I bite my tongue so I don’t say any of it out loud.
Why does it have to be an O’Connor? Only the family with one of the most potent druid pedigrees, said to be direct descendants of the Connacht Kings. I’ve never paid much attention to the three sibling newbies who arrived back in August, brought to Finland when their mom, Caitlin O’Connor, got voted into office with the UCMW. Suffice it to say, they’re all-powerful magic wielders—even Hannah, who’s only nine. None of them have ever bothered much with me either, until now. Morgan stares up at me, eyebrows lifted as if he expects an answer.