“The Sons of Saint Druon believe the veil between the living and the dead has been damaged by some idiots performing death magic they had no business doing. There’s a reason things are forbidden, but rules never do account for sheer stupidity. Nothing like this has happened in about one hundred years.”

“What happened one hundred years ago?”

“Well.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “That is why I was trying so desperately to get in touch with Ana Vykotsky. She was the only one who knew the whole story. Well, her and Boss Olan, but he is dead too, I hear.”

I nod, my heart in my throat. I barely know what my father is talking about, but I am well aware of the deaths of Ana Vykotsky and George Olan. I wear them like wounds, like scabs I can’t stop picking at.

It takes me a moment to find my voice. “What’s the story?”

“Ahh, we don’t have time. I really shouldn’t even be telling you this. The only reason I am is so you can tell your current headmistress to write me.”

“Surely you can provide me with more details for her. The more I know the better,” I press. I need to know more.

He tsks. “I’m afraid not.”

He springs up from his desk, dropping his mug with a clumsy clatter. Muddy coffee splashes over my shoes.

Distantly a bell rings.

“Well, that’s time for me! I do hope you’ll come see me again while you’re here in town. I have office hours most days from two to four p.m.”

It’s beyond insulting being invited to my own father’s office hours, but right now, I’ll take what I can get. He doesn’t seem to be interested in a father-daughter relationship. It’s all the same to me. I’ll take these unsettling business meetings if it will get me the answers I need.

He walks me to the door, but pauses as I adjust my hat.

“And my son,” he asks. “How is William?”

I’ve thought about this part, how it would hurt to deliver the news. I suspected he’d ask and I would be the one to have to tell him, but I couldn’t have imagined a sting quite this horrible.

I take a breath. “He’s dead. About two years ago now.”

He blinks slowly, the spark of light in his eyes snuffing out like a candle at the end of the night. It’s the first show of genuine emotion I’ve seen from him since my arrival.

“… Dead? No, that can’t be right. He’s so young.”

“He was nineteen,” I say. “When he was murdered.”

He leans heavy against the doorjamb, something within him deflating. “Murdered.” He says the word like a marvel, like it can’t be true. “How? Who… who killed him?”