Give the Dark My Love(35)

“Me?”

“Some of the phrases used in your great-grandmother’s journal piqued my interest,” he said. “And when you mentioned your history study group in your report, I was reminded of some old books students don’t have access to.”

He stood, disappearing into his office again, leaving me with the book on necromancy. I put it on the table. I didn’t want to touch it.

When he returned, Master Ostrum laid a heavy tome in front of me, opening to a page that he had marked. I gasped at what I saw.

Illustrated on one side was the figure of a bare-chested man. Blackness spread out over his heart. It was definitely not frostbite like in the drawing in Flora’s book.

“This,” Master Ostrum said, “is an illustration made by one of the first colonists. Rayburn Alfinn, Lord Commander to Bennum Wellebourne when he was governor of Lunar Island. Alfinn fought beside Wellebourne until he crossed the line into necromancy, then became one of his greatest opponents. It’s hard to find primary sources from that time period; much has been lost, and the few remaining works are locked up in the governor’s treasury, inaccessible even to scholars.”

He frowned again, and I remembered his disdain for Governor Adelaide. After seeing her this evening, it was hard to share the sentiment.

“I was able to dig this up thanks to a few friends,” he added.

I stared at the illustration. It looked like the plague, but I wasn’t certain. My eyes skimmed the old text. The writing was out of date and particularly florid, but the crux of what was written was clear.

“And you think maybe the plague was . . .” I paused, thinking, remembering my history lessons. Wellebourne’s treason had very nearly been successful—but only after he had raised his army of the dead. Prior to that, the conflict had remained grounded on Lunar Island, split between the north, which sided with him, and the south, which was against. He was only able to unify the island with his reign of terror, and it was only with the reanimated corpses that he had the strength to be a threat to the Empire.

“When he needed a larger army of revenants,” Master Ostrum said, “he simply created more dead people.”

My stomach churned, thinking of the long graves in the field at the center of the island. There were hundreds—thousands—dead now. “But there is no war,” I pointed out. “No need for an army of revenants. We’re all Imperial.”

But even as I said the words, Salis’s history study group rose in my mind. Not everyone wanted to stay Imperial.

“It’s just a theory now,” Master Ostrum said. “But an angle worth exploring. Read this.” He handed me The Fourth Alchemy again, pressing it into my hands. “Please.”

A few months ago, I would have thrown this book down in disgust and walked away—maybe even returned home, where the only books I knew reminded me of my father. But now . . .

My fingers wrapped around the spine of the book.

Now I was willing to try anything.





EIGHTEEN


    Grey



Two weeks passed, the days turning into a blur as we all focused on writing our midterm essays. There was no more precious real estate than a table at the library.

Every night, I gave my reports to Master Ostrum, detailing what I had read about and how I intended to shape my essay. Nedra talked about the plague. She brought news sheets to our sessions, reading aloud accounts of Governor Adelaide speaking on the steps of the castle, calling upon all alchemists in the city and beyond to aid in developing a cure or a way to prevent the disease from spreading further. The Emperor had barricaded himself in his private quarters. The news sheets claimed that he sent constant advice and aid to the governor and stayed in order to help, but the rumor mill eviscerated him for not doing more in the island’s time of need, mocking his cowardice at quarantining himself.

A few factory owners and merchants had grown ill. The Governor’s Hospital started inspecting people before admittance. Any signs of blackness on the skin meant the patient was rejected and sent directly to the quarantine hospital, no matter their social standing. The quarantine hospital, meanwhile, was relocating any patients who didn’t have the Wasting Death. The mentally infirm would be sent to a sanitarium on the mainland in the coming weeks, and other illnesses were being treated by apothecaries directly.

A few professors quit giving lectures at Yūgen—dedicating their attention to the illness—which came at a fortuitous time for those of us who were so focused on writing our midterm reports that we had stopped attending lectures.

Everyone was on edge the day our midterm grades were due. The nervous chatter died down as soon as Master Ostrum opened the door and walked to his desk, a box full of folders in his hands. Inside each one was a student essay—mine was twenty-two pages long—detailing all we’d learned so far in the semester and how we intended to continue to focus our studies.

Master Ostrum handed Nedra’s folder back to her first. It was considerably smaller than the rest, including mine, which Master Ostrum dropped on my desk unceremoniously. I flipped it open and saw one word scratched across the top: Acceptable.

My hands curled into fists. Acceptable? Acceptable? I had uncovered books the librarians hadn’t even known existed in my research. I’d translated ancient alchemical runes myself. I’d even reached out to some of Father’s connections for interviews. My essay was far, far more than acceptable. I flipped through the pages, hoping to see some other note, a check mark, a smudge in the ink to indicate he’d read past the first page.