Tessa gives Jacey a playful glare. “For your information, I didn’t have time to tell her anything about our binding. So I must not be the only talkative one around here.”

I flinch at my mistake. I keep losing track of what I should know and what I only know from my other path. I fiddle with the napkin in my lap, flicking the corner between my thumb and forefinger. “My mother attended Ivory Hall, so I had some idea of what to expect.”

Tessa shakes a basket of bread in front of me. “Do you want more?” I grin and raise my eyebrows. Crimson floods her cheeks. “I really do keep trying to feed you, don’t I?”

“Yes.” I snatch a chunk of bread from the top of the heap. “But it’s endearing.”

Jacey offers me a plate with tiny roses carved of butter. “Was your mother a Charmer too?”

A lump forms in my throat. “She was.” I look away to discourage further questions.

The conversation shifts to the upcoming bone games. By now I’ve figured out they’re a series of challenges during second term, but most of the information about them is rooted in speculation and rumor. I’m just grateful we’re not talking about my mother anymore. It’s a wound too raw to bear prodding.

Chapter Four

The rest of the day is a whirlwind. Norah takes me on a tour of Ivory Hall—from the grounds of rolling hills and colorful autumn trees, down to the brightly lit workshop in the basement, and finally to the training wing, where she announces that my first session with Master Kyra will be tonight. I had hoped for more time to settle in—one day, at least—but Norah remains insistent.

“You’re months behind the others,” she says. “I’m afraid you’ll need many extra hours of practice to catch up before the bone games.”

I start to ask what she means by bone games, but she’s already walking away.

Now I stifle a yawn as I sit at a circular table opposite Master Kyra. Several small animal bones are scattered on a cloth in front of me.

“I’m holding a small object in my left palm,” Kyra says. “I’d like you to attempt to divine what it is.”

She lights a bundle of incense, and the smoke curls around us in lazy circles. When the sharp scent of sage hits my nose, memories of my mother rise in my mind—her sitting in front of a stone basin performing readings for the townsfolk, the soothing certainty in the cadence of her voice, the delicate beauty of her hands wielding small needles and pieces of flint. My throat aches. I squeeze my eyes closed.

“Saskia?” Master Kyra’s voice is tinged with worry. “Is something wrong?”

I shake my head. My grief feels too raw to share. Too personal. “I’m fine.”