I don’t only take Alchemy-related classes. I also have multiple art studios and conservatories. In one class we’ve been learning about the physics of sound so we can physically manipulate things with music—it feels like actual magic.

When I talk about art classes with Kor, he often remind me to remain focused on gathering the information more important to the Oculus. But Dr. Ambrose doesn’t do that. He seems equally interested in all my studies, and he takes detailed notes about my new classes so that he can consult with the Inner Chamber about whether there’s anything specific they want me to glean for them.

When we’re finished, I call Mom. She tells me she misses me and asks about my general well-being, but, as usual, she’s too busy to do more than see my face and make sure I’m safe before she has to go and passes me on to Grandfather.

When his gaunt face appears on my screen, I almost burst into tears. He looks so ill. He’s thinner than before—if that’s even possible—and his skin is sallow.

“Grandfather!” I yelp. “I miss you so much.”

“I miss you too, mi reinita. I miss you too. But maybe we’ll see each other soon. Can you come home for Easter?” He starts coughing—a shuddering, phlegmy cough—and my heart hurts. He’s getting worse. If anything happens to Grandfather that I could have prevented, I’ll never forgive myself.

“Come, Tomás.” Sal appears on-screen. “Sit back. I’ll bring you some hot water with lemon.”

Once I say my goodbyes, I go back into the common room and promptly start sobbing as I flip through pictures on my phone.

“You okay?” Georgie asks, pulling off her headphones.

“Yeah, just missing my family again.”

She comes and sits next to me, and I show her my phone, scrolling through photos and pointing.

“This is my mom.” She looks carefree and happy in this photo, sitting on a rock at the Ravine in Central Park, not a stitch of makeup on, her blond hair loose and blowing in the wind. It’s an old photo. I haven’t seen her that relaxed in years. There are a few more similar shots, reminding me of a time when my mother knew how to have fun. When did she change? And when did I start to forget this version of her?

I keep scrolling and almost show Georgie a picture of Izzy, but calling her my best friend doesn’t feel true anymore, so I flip past all our selfies, trying not to start crying again.

“This is my cousin, Kor.” I bring up a selfie of us making stupid faces on the set of his Rolling Stone photo shoot.

Georgie stares, bug-eyed, with her mouth open in a perfect round O. When she finally regains her speech, she asks, “Your cousin is Kor Chevalier?”