Chapter 6 Meet the Suspects #2
Across the table sat a woman with blonde curls like a Botticelli angel, her face flushed, lips forming a cupid’s bow as she laughed with the man beside her.
She exuded charisma, an aura of effortless charm wrapping her and everyone near her.
She wore a long dress of blues and purples draping her figure elegantly.
Beside her, the man lounged casually in his chair, his strong jaw and deep-set hazel eyes catching the light.
His tailored sports jacket was made from a rich, heavy fabric which complemented his bohemian poise.
His arm was draped over the back of the blonde’s chair, suggesting a familiar intimacy. He was the first to notice me.
“Look what the Meister dragged in. Another playmate,” he said with a smirk, locking eyes with me.
The blonde smiled warmly. “You must be the new student. We’ve been excited to meet you. Come sit.”
A man sat further down, seated in a wheelchair with a book in his lap. When he looked up, I saw the half-dazed look of someone pulled from another world. Nina settled into a seat, and I noticed everyone wore bright, whimsical colors like the lining of the Meister’s jacket—everyone except me.
I stood for a moment at the edge of the room before joining them at the table.
Individually, they seemed unremarkable—eccentric scholars, perhaps not too different from myself.
Examining any one of them too closely would render them as separate, isolated pieces—like a jigsaw puzzle in fragments.
But together, they formed a powerful, enigmatic ensemble.
And one, if not all, could be dangerous.
I would never fully trust any of them, but I had to secure their trust in me, at all costs.
“I’m equally excited to meet all of you. Though I must admit, the Meister didn’t share all your names,” I said with what I hoped looked like a genuine smile.
Nina busied herself at the buffet table, then returned to sit with the others. “These are the Trees—Aspen Barlowe and Sequoia Nightingale. Leone Beaufort is the one always reading. And I’m Nina, in case you’ve already forgotten.”
The Trees. So, they were together.
“And don’t worry, Sequoia and Aspen are only distantly related, so it’s only distantly disgusting,” Nina teased.
“Oh, don’t be jealous, Nin,” Aspen replied, striding toward me. “Maybe the new girl is more your type, hmm?”
Nina scoffed and returned to her seat. Aspen reached me, grinning. “Let me introduce you to our spread. And perhaps, over breakfast, you’ll tell us everything—where you come from, your darkest fears, your deepest desires.”
He was devilishly handsome, I had to admit, with perfectly symmetrical features and a birthmark on his neck. His hair was a few shades darker than Sequoia’s, and his face carried a sharpness she lacked. His hazel eyes reminded me of the color of upturned moss after a rainstorm, dewy and rich.
“Very well, if you promise to do the same,” I replied.
He grabbed a fresh plate and began piling on food.
“We have Miss Seaward’s famous buttermilk biscuits, eggs, bacon—the staples.
Fresh quiche—Koi, was it mushroom and feta today?
The crust is flaky and divine. Then there’s the crepes station.
I recommend the gooseberry jam; let me get that for you.
And finally.” He paused, looking at me gravely.
“Under no circumstances can you miss the breakfast cookies. Lemon sugar cookies this morning. Miss Seaward really went all out for your arrival.”
“I don’t think I could eat that much,” I started, but my stomach betrayed me with a growl.
“Nonsense. You’ve had a long journey, and, if you don’t mind me saying, adding a few stones to your figure wouldn’t hurt.”
I squinted at him. Well, he was certainly blunt.
“Stop eyeing her like a Christmas pig and get back over here. You were helping me with this translation, remember? No one alive has ever escaped it, neither brave man nor coward—it’s born with us the day we are born.
Why were the Romans so damn roundabout? I’d rather be studying Gaelic,” Sequoia mused.
“Death?” Nina offered over her biscuit.
“Fate,” I interjected. “No one alive escapes Fate.”
“And she knows her Homer. You’ll fit right in,” Aspen said approvingly. “Now, try the tea—it’s my favorite, especially on a cold winter day. Isn’t this turmeric chai otherworldly, Koi?”
“Mhmm,” she mumbled through mouthfuls of crepe.
“Oh, I don’t drink—”
“Milk? Sugar?” he interrupted.
How could someone be so charming and overbearing at the same time? I glanced at Nina, who winked over her coffee as if to say play along. Whatever game Aspen was playing, I had to let him think he held the advantage. I took the plate from his hands.
“You’re too kind; I’ll have both.” The tea’s aroma—turmeric, ginger, and something else, earthy and moss-like—wafted up.
Was I being paranoid, or was something else in the tea?
Nina’s warning echoed in my mind. I noted that everyone else had varying shades of coffee beside their plates despite Aspen’s claimed love of the tea.
Aspen set my plate beside Nina’s seat and took his place across from me. I smiled at him and eagerly bit into the biscuit, then the quiche. The food looked delicious, yet it dissolved into bland mush on my tongue. How could something that looked so appetizing taste so dull?
“By your expression, I can tell you’re not used to this level of fine dining. Don’t worry, you’ll adjust,” Aspen taunted.
“Though Foresyth lacks many . . . modern amenities, the food more than compensates,” Sequoia added. “Now, tell us—what’s your name again? The Meister mentioned it, Delilah?”
“Dahlia—like the flower—Dahlia Blackburne.”
“Ah, Dahlia. Flowers aren’t too far from trees, are they, my betrothed?” Sequoia chimed, nudging Aspen.
“No, but trees are taller, closer to the Gods. We’ll help elevate you, Dahlia. Though we’re serious academics, the best part of the Conservatory is the community. No one has to live in their own head anymore. Isn’t that right, Leone?”
“I might prefer mine to suffering in yours,” Leone muttered, barely looking up. Aspen’s self-declared authority didn’t intimidate everyone, it seemed.
“Never mind Leone,” Aspen retorted. “A brick has more personality than him. Though I wouldn’t get on his bad side, he is an Olympic fencer.”
As they continued to bicker, I let one of the lemon cookies slip from my hand to the floor with a thud, sending up a cloud of powdered sugar.
I bent down to retrieve it, using the moment to slip a small wad of cotton I’d plucked from the chair upholstery into my cheek, a buffer for whatever was in the tea.
“Clumsy me,” I murmured as I resumed my seat. Aspen’s eyes were still on me. I took a loud slurp of the tea, letting the liquid soak into the cotton rather than swallowing. I couldn’t eliminate the tea’s effects entirely, but at least I could dampen them.
“So, Dahlia,” Aspen leaned in, his tone suddenly sharper. “Why are you here?”
To investigate you, I withheld with a bite of my lip. Instead, I replied evenly, “To study, of course. I’m a scholar of Hermetic Tarotology.”
“Funny—almost sounds like tautology. Anyone else feeling déjà vu?”
“What do you mean?”
The students exchanged knowing glances, stifling laughs. “Let’s just say that Tarot isn’t a new topic here. Several others have studied it,” Nina said, her gaze fixed on her coffee. How many students? Was Julian among them?
“Yes, more common than I’d care to admit. And what did you do before coming to Foresyth?” Aspen continued.
“I went to Wesley. Majored in classics. Hence the Homer.” More thanks to my mother’s library than anything else.
Even if the books didn’t sell well, I’d read them all.
And when I was done with those, that’s when I moved on to the rarer tomes of occultism and ceremonial magick.
All for fun, light-hearted reading, of course.
“Wesley’s prestigious. My cousin Annabelle went there for theater. See, Aspen, she’s one of us. Let her be.” Sequoia looked me over. “Although, Dahlia, dear, we should modernize your wardrobe. The dark plaids really wash you out.”
“Heard there were three suicides there last year, mostly in chemistry,” Nina remarked, eyes gleaming.
“Shut up, Nina. No one cares about your twisted metrics of prestige,” Aspen shot back.
“Bite me, Barlowe.”
“No thanks.”
The cotton ball in my cheek was beginning to saturate with saliva. It was time to excuse myself. “I need to find a restroom.”
“Here, I’ll show you,” Sequoia rose to guide me.
When we reached the restroom, Sequoia paused and placed a hand on my shoulder, her grip gentle yet firm.
She smelled faintly of lavender. “I’m sorry about Aspen.
He’s going through . . . ,” she started, looking away.
“There was a student here before you, but he left unexpectedly. Aspen hasn’t handled it well. ”
“Why did he leave?” I tested, the cotton was soaking onto my tongue, the ginger prickling my cheek.
“It’s complicated. But I was looking forward to meeting you. The Meister only brings in students he deems worthy. I can’t wait to see what you’ll bring to our group.” Her tone was warm, yet the statement bristled with expectation.
“I’m looking forward to being a part of it,” I replied.
Once she walked away, I skittered into the bathroom, closing the door firmly before spitting the yellow tea-soaked cotton into the sink. As I rinsed my mouth, another timely Latin phrase floated to my mind, one that my father taught me before he died.
De omnibus dubitandum.
Be suspicious of everything.