“There was another murder last week,” he says. “Still haven’t identified the body, but he looked young.”

My stomach rolls at the memory of what happened in the catacombs. “I saw in the papers,” I reply as casually as I am able. “The city is in a tizzy.”

My father nods, grave. “Don’t you worry, we’ll find the culprits soon.”

“And when you do?” I prompt.

He glances out the window, then back to me. “Did you ever write to Haxahaven’s headmistress?”

“Yes, but I doubt the letter has reached New York yet.”

My father leans back in his chair, looking uncomfortable. “It really is time-sensitive. I apologize for asking, but could you write again?”

“All right. I’ll send a telegram this afternoon,” I reply hesitantly. “But I must insist you tell me why.”

“Information about death magic is forbidden,” he explains. “I’ve dedicated my career to research, and even I know very little of it. The only two people who are supposed to know how to open and close the veil are the leaders of the Sons of Saint Druon and the witches of Haxahaven. Since it was their pupils who opened it last, they took it upon themselves to be the keepers of the true events of the story, and therefore the arbiters of the information on how to close the veil. It seems, however, that the leaders of both organizations have died unexpectedly without identifying successors and passing the information on. What rotten luck. I’m hoping your Florence Poole may have more information.”

Mrs. Vykotsky and Boss Olan died and took their secrets with them.

“What do you mean it was their pupils who opened the veil last?”

“It’s just a story.”

“Please.” It comes out begging. This was what he began to tell me the first day I arrived in his office, before backing off and running out the door. I can’t let him leave again without knowing the truth.

My father sighs. “I really shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“I won’t write to Florence until you tell me why.”

He considers me. He must take my threat seriously, because he begins. “The last time the veil was opened was about one hundred years ago. A young witch from your very own Haxahaven Academy fell madly in love with a dashing Son of Saint Druon and they ran away together, or so the story goes.” He sort of sighs like it is a funny way to begin a story and takes a sip of coffee. But I think of my mother meeting my father at the Haxahaven garden wall. I think of myself climbing over that same garden wall twenty years later to meet Finn. No, a witch falling in love with a Son isn’t funny at all.