Chapter 21 A Promise
The next few days were a haze. My head throbbed like it was about to burst, and my ankle was swollen almost as large as a grapefruit.
I stayed in bed for the majority of the time, save for when Nina would bring around meals.
Sequoia would try to come in as well, but I never let her in.
Instead, I watched outside of my window as the migratory birds drifted back from winter, embracing the rising warmth of spring.
I watched them for a long time, studying their patterns in the bright blue sky.
When no one was around, I’d reach for the bag that I kept tucked away under my bed.
It had been returned to me after the Initiation.
Luckily, the journal was still intact, Julian’s words stained in bright red.
There were coordinates at the bottom of the page that I hadn’t noticed the day at the Tramping Grounds.
I traced the numbers with my fingertips so many times, I had memorized them by heart.
The truth about Julian was out there. The truth about my father, too. But I didn’t allow myself to dwell on them, not yet. Not when my mind was as tender as my broken body.
When Nina came in to deliver me food, she tried to talk to me. She’d say silly things like you’re looking better, or the weather is so nice. But I would just nod and go back to staring out the window.
I thought about my previous clients a lot.
I distantly wondered if Carousel Michelle had ever made that trip up north without her husband.
I also thought about Lady Florance’s fat cat and wondered if the timed feeder I had made helped him to lose weight.
I thought about my mom, opening and closing the threadbare curtains every day.
I thought about Gabriel, sitting in that grassy plot in front of Greenwich Library, eating his lunch alone.
I asked Richard every day if any post had come for me, desperate to hear from them.
I thought about everything except Foresyth.
“You know, you did brilliantly,” Nina said one day, bringing me a steaming bowl of soup.
She didn’t need to specify what she meant; we both knew she was referencing the Initiation.
“I knew you were ready after you accurately helped me pinpoint the Tramping Grounds. I’m glad the Meister finally decided to Initiate you after your debut to the Council. You did so much better than I did.”
I gave Nina a soft smile, but my lips cracked. I tasted blood.
“I vomited the elixir at my Initiation,” she went on.
“They almost had my membership revoked for that,” she went on.
Then she came to my bedside and took a seat, the bed barely indented with her lightness.
“But you—you were a show. You really earned that theatre concentration. You knew when to put in a fight, and when to give in. Sophia must have been very entertained.”
“I heard her,” I said blankly. I don’t know why I decided to share it, but it felt good doing so. I was tired of secrets, even my own.
“We all did. It was the elixir—it increases your magickal sensitivity,” Nina said, surely excited to not be talking to the brick wall I had been the past few days.
“She said that we all prayed to a false God. Do you know what she was talking about?” I asked. Her words had haunted me all these languid days in bed, but I hadn’t wanted to address them. At least, not until now.
Nina’s features sharpened but then became unreadable. “You must have heard wrong; she is our one true God, the emanation from Source,” she said. I almost didn’t recognize her in that next moment, her chiding self all but gone.
Sophia’s voice had felt so real against my ear; I swore I felt her breath against my neck. I felt her power over me. It must have been a hallucination—I had been drugged, after all. But despite my reasoning, the Initiation shook me to the core.
Everything I held dear—reason, science, evidence—no longer made any sense.
I was starting to entertain the idea that magick was real.
“What was in that elixir?” I asked, my senses finally kicking in. There had to be a logical explanation for everything I’d seen at Foresyth, I couldn’t give up on that. It might not have been poison, but it could have been mind-altering.
“It’s an herbal tonic—myrtle, mugwort, a pinch of four-leaf clover, and salvia divinorum.”
“The sage of diviners?” I sat up on my wrists and only a dull ache bit back.
“Someone has been studying their Latin,” a smile crept on her features before dropping. “Yes, the same. But with a very low concentration, I made sure of that. Enough to open ourselves spiritually, but not enough to hallucinate.”
“Someone’s learned titration,” I teased back. A wave of relief washed over me. There was an explanation for everything. There had to be.
“It’s jarring—I know. I didn’t come from a magickal background, so this kind of thing didn’t come naturally to me. But once you accept it, as it has accepted you, you gain access to power you could only dream of.”
“I don’t want power,” I said, and it was true. Nothing good came from chasing power. I had always thought knowledge was a much more noble pursuit. Despite the fact that it was proving to be just as deadly.
“Of course you do—we all do. Power is life. And for someone like me, it’s the choice between life or death. Power or despair. Power or death.”
I scrunched my features, trying to discern her words. Nina seemed to have an inherent power, one that radiated outwardly and impinged everything she touched. I couldn’t imagine her any differently. Did she not recognize it herself?
She uttered a soundless laugh. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I was a lot different before I came to Foresyth.
I was hungrier—I had to do a lot of things to survive back then, things I’m not proud of.
I had been starving for power so long, I didn’t know what it was like to be full.
” She looked away from me and at the window.
A single crow landed on the windowsill, no doubt searching for his next meal.
“The way my parents died in their accident . . . The roads were slick, and their car went over a bridge.” Her voice softened.
I could see the memory flash over her features, reduced back to her childlike self.
“I was with them. But I was so small, I managed to pry the door open enough to swim through. My parents did not. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done—leaving them. ”
I reached for her hand instinctively. Despite the walls I tried to keep up from everyone at Foresyth, my heart strained against her words.
I hadn’t wanted to share my vulnerability with her, but it was hard not to give in when she shared hers so willingly.
Her pain was palpable, I could almost reach out and grab it.
I pressed down on her hand instead. “I know what it’s like to lose a parent,” I said. “It’s like a piece of you dies—your innocence, your childhood. You’re forced to grow up quickly.”
She nodded and two tears slid down her cheeks.
She inhaled hard, wiping them away. “I’m sorry, this isn’t about me.
It’s about you. I know this place comes with its own challenges, but I just want to tell you, it’s worth it—the knowledge, the power.
It doesn’t fill the hole in your heart, but it comes close. ”
I thought of my father and his musical laughter. He rarely laughed, but when he did, it brightened the whole room. I tried imagining him laughing here at Foresyth, but the picture in my mind felt too incongruous.
“Do you ever wish you could bring them back?” I asked, the face of my father still freshly imprinted in my mind.
“All the time,” she said gravely and squeezed my hand.
We sat like that for a while, with her hand in mine, watching the crows collect on the windowsill.
*
It had been a full week since the Initiation, but I finally made it down to the breakfast table.
My ankle had healed significantly, thanks to one of Nina’s tonics (without hallucinogenic effects, I think), and even my wrists were back to normal.
My legs felt weaker though, from not moving regularly.
I took a mental note of needing to develop an exercise regimen.
Coming down late to the breakfast table, I knew I had evaded Aspen and Sequoia who were early risers. Only Leone remained at the table, greeting me more chipper than usual.
“Hello, Dahlia,” Leone said without looking up from his book.
“I think that’s the first time you’ve acknowledged my existence.”
“Well, you’re a part of us now. I heard you survived the Al-Ahmar. Anyone who does that deserves respect.”
I hesitated, the memory of the red woman flickering in my mind. “I didn’t think she was all that impressive,” I lied, piling biscuits onto my plate. Her face had haunted my dreams every night since the Initiation.
Leone glanced over the edge of his book, measuring my words.
“That wasn’t the only reason I accepted you,” he said, finally closing the book with deliberate care.
“You certainly stand out among the others—you’re the only one taking the scientific part of our studies seriously.
We need more skeptical practitioners like you. ”
The compliment felt almost backhanded, but I took it in stride.
Leone had a way of speaking like facts were the only currency that mattered, and emotions were irrelevant.
Still, I couldn’t ignore the flicker of validation his words stirred.
It wasn’t often that someone at Foresyth acknowledged the virtues of logic.
Leone took a slow sip of his coffee, the dark liquid reflecting the early morning light. I could feel the conversation slipping away from me, and my pulse quickened.
This was my chance.
“Leone?” I ventured, trying to keep my voice steady. His gaze flicked up to me, slightly impatient, but curious.
I swallowed. “Now that I’m . . . accepted”—I stumbled over the word—“when can I learn about The Book of Skorn? The unpublished version?”
My heart thudded in my chest. The desperation was creeping into my voice despite my best efforts to mask it. My ankle still throbbed, and I wasn’t in any condition to chase down my father’s journal, but I still needed answers—Answers that Foresyth held within its very own cursed walls.
Leone raised an eyebrow, tapping the cover of his book absentmindedly.
“Well, typically, that’s covered during the Circle after your Initiation.
But since you’ve been . . . indisposed,” he said, the slightest pause giving weight to his word.
“I imagine you’ll be brought in at the next Circle. Tonight.”
Tonight. The word dangled between us, syrupy and thick with promise.
“I’ll get to see the Book?” I pressed, narrowing my eyes, trying to gauge how much truth he was willing to share. Could I trust anything they said? The secrets, the manipulation—how much of what they told me was true?
“The oath of silence only applies to non-Initiates,” he said, his tone flat, as if explaining something as mundane as the weather. His indifference made it clear he was ready to move on from the conversation.
Answers. The thought of finally getting clarity felt unreal, heady. I knew they wouldn’t give me everything—not the full truth—but at least I’d have their version.